THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


LADY  MARION'S  HOME.          Page  9. 


Lady  JVEaiion's 


BY 


LYDIA    L.    ROUSE, 

AUTHOR  OF  "SANDY'S  FAITH,"  "HONEST  WULLIE,"  "DUNCAN 
KENNEDY'S  NEW  HOME,"  ETC. 


AMERICAN  TRACT  SOCIETY, 

150  NASSAU  STREET,   NEW  YORK   CITY. 


COPYRIGHT,  1887, 
BY  AMERICAN  TRACT  SOCIETY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Sir  William's  Disappointment —  7 

CHAPTER  II. 

Breaking  Up  the  Estate —  19 

CHAPTER  III. 

Dalziel's  Second  Visit 30 

CHAPTER   IV. 

The  Ainslie  Bairns 40 

CHAPTER  V. 

The  Black  Linn 52 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Roger  Ainslie 62 

CHAPTER  VII. 

The  Headless  Ghost . 73 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Ainslie's  Return.-.  _    82 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Gentle  Annie 92 


4  CONTENTS.  ' 

CHAPTER  X. 

Lady  Marion's  Marriage-- - 


CHAPTER  XL 

Old  Stephen's  Sorrow --.  -.109 

CHAPTER  XII. 

Wee  Jessie's  Cove --  "6 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

Roger  Leaves  Home --  121 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

Motherhood —  131 

CHAPTER  XV. 

Marjorie 141 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

Sorrow  at  the  Castle. 149 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

Changes 156 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Roger's  Secret 165 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

Elspeth  at  the  Farmhouse 174 


CHAPTER  XX. 

The  Motherless  Bairns ,84 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Death  of  Jean  Hughs. .. 


\ 
CONTENTS.  5 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

Retribution —  198 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A  Talk  in  the  Gloaming 205 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Among  the  Tenantry . 212 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Elspeth's  Surprise 219 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

The  Death  of  Sir  William 224 


LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

CHAPTER   I. 
SIR  WILLIAM'S  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

CRAGSBY  CASTLE  was  situated  on  the  bank 
of  the  river  Tay,  not  far  from  the  Grampian  Hills. 
It  derived  its  name  from  its  close  proximity  to  a 
high,  craggy  mountain.  When  the  building  was 
first  contemplated  several  sites  were  proposed, 
but  the  site  by  the  crags  was  chosen.  After  a 
while  the  name  The  Castle  by  the  Crags  became 
contracted  into  Cragsby  Castle. 

In  this  castle  dwelt  Marion  Campbell.  She 
lived  in  the  distant  past,  but  that  matters  not  to 
us;  for  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  the  human  family 
a're  ever  repea-ted.  "The  thing  that  hath  been 
is  that  which  shall  be."  When  we  read  the  his- 
tory of  those  whose  lives  belonged  to  another  age 
we  feel  that  we  are  acting  over  again  the  parts  of 
others;  that  human  nature  is  the  same  under 
various  manifestations  as  generation  succeeds 


8  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

generation.  So,  though  Lady  Marion  has  long 
since  slept  the  dull  sleep  of  death,  the  story  of  her 
life  may  wake  an  echo  in  many  a  heart.  Her 
story  opens  at  the  time  when  life  has  most  of 
interest,  in  the  flush  of  early  womanhood. 

Many  a  fair  lady  had  graced  with  her  presence 
these  ancestral  halls,  and  many  a  Marion  too;  for 
the  name  had  been  handed  down  in  the  Campbell 
family  time  out  of  mind.  Sir  William  Campbell, 
the  present  occupant  of  the  castle,  thought  that 
the  name  had  never  been  worn  by  any  one  so 
beautiful  as  his  own  daughter.  Although  he 
had  no  son  to  bear  his  name,  and  although  the 
fortunes  of  the  family  were  sadly  changed,  he 
had  high  hopes  for  Marion.  In  her  charms  he 
saw  great  possibilities.  He  thought  that  an  an- 
cient name  united  with  so  much  beauty  and 
grace  would  more  than  compensate  for  the  empti- 
ness of  her  father's  coffers.  To  this  end  he.  made 
it  his  business  to  entertain  many  sons  of  fortune. 
And  this  was  no  difficult  thing  to  do.  Cragsby 
Castle  was  the  only  considerable  castle  within 
many  miles,  and  it  was  a  very  attractive  place, 
standing  as  it  did  in  the  midst  of  such  beautiful 
and  diversified  scenery  as  can  be  presented  by 
picturesque  mountains  and  quiet,  glassy  lakes. 
The  mountain-sides  were  dotted  with  clumps  of 
alder  and  hazel,  the  summits  were  crowned  with 


SIR  WILLIAM'S  DISAPPOINTMENT.  9 

ash  and  oak,  while  here  and  there  a  little  stream 
flowed  down,  looking  like  a  silver  thread,  wind- 
ing serpent-like  past  the  roots  of  trees,  then  pass- 
ing hurriedly  through  the  crevices  of  gray  cleft 
rocks,  and  again  lost  in  the  tangled  vines  and 
coppice  that  skirted  the  lake.  Here,  then,  under 
the  shadow  of  the  mountains,  where  nature  had 
scattered  her  wealth  in  profusion,  where  a  young 
life  would  naturally  claim  as  much  freedom  as 
the  air  that  sustained  it,  where  in  all  the  sur- 
rounding country  each  gray  head  was  well  stored 
with  legendary  lore,  lived  the  maiden  who  was 
to  wed  him  only  whom  her  proud  and  calculating 
father  should  judge  most  suitable. 

If  this  story  were  merely  a  love-story,  or  if 
it  were  written  only  to  present  life  in  its  brightest 
and  most  pleasing  aspect,  we  would  linger  around 
the  rose-tinted  morn  of  Marion's  life;  for  that  was 
sunny  and  joyous.  But  this  part  of  her  life,  sweet 
as  it  was,  was  all  too  short,  and  sorrow  and  stern 
realities  soon  followed.  The  light  and  the  bright- 
ness dropped  suddenly  out  of  her  life  and  all  at 
once  it  seemed  as  sombre  and  hard-featured  as 
the  old  stone  castle  itself.  The  quiet  little  grot- 
tos no  longer  offered  her  the  peace  she  was  wont 
to  find  in  them.  The  fields  no  longer  smiled  for 
her,  and  when  her  own  calm  lake  mirrored  her 
face  she  saw  that  it  was  wan  and  sad.  What 


io  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

had  wrought  the  change  ?  Something  must  have 
happened  to  give  this  leaden  hue  to  existence. 

Among  her  father's  guests  were  two  young 
men  who  often  occupied  her  thoughts.  One  she 
regarded  with  as  much  affection  as  she  dared; 
the  other  with  an  equal  amount  of  aversion.  As 
may  be  supposed,  her  own  heart  had  singled  out 
one  as  a  kindred  spirit;  the  other  her  father  had 
chosen  for  her  husband.  In  the  eyes  of  Sir 
William  Campbell  the  only  requisite  in  a  son-in- 
law  was  silver.  His  mind  dwelt  on  this  till  all 
his  finer  conceptions  were  blunted;  he  even  waived 
all  ideas  of  right  and  wrong  and  justice.  He 
thought  of  his  daughter's  marriage  as  a  mere 
business  transaction  and  therefore  Roger  Ainslie, 
the  man  whom  Marion  had  chosen,  was  not  to  be 
compared  to  Malcolm  Dalziel,  who  "handled 
mair  siller  in  a  year  than  Ainslie  would  in  a  life- 
time." 

Indeed,  Ainslie  was  not  invited  to  the  castle 
in  the  way  that  Malcolm  Dalziel  was.  He  had 
accompanied  Dalziel  to  the  North  on  a  hunting 
expedition,  and  Sir  William,  meeting  them,  ex- 
tended an  invitation  to  both  because  Roger  was 
the  friend  of  Dalziel. 

Poverty  as  yet  had  not  banished  the  good 
cheer  from  the  castle,  and  the  wine  kept  for  sorest 
need  sparkled  on  the  board.  But  while  Dalziel 


SIR  WILLIAM'S   DISAPPOINTMENT.  II 

drained  his  glass  often,  the  other  guest  did  not 
even  sip  the  'beverage.  Sir  William  one  day  re- 
marked, ' '  You  pay  but  an  ill  compliment  to  the 
wine  I  furnish,  Ainslie." 

Roger  begged  the  pardon  of  his  host  and 
added,  "I  cannot  forget  the  words  o'  the  wise 
man,  '  Wine  is  a  mocker. '  ' ' 

The  answer  displeased  Sir  William,  and  he 
said,  ' '  King  David  speaks  o'  it  as  '  wine  that 
maketh  glad  the  heart  o'  mon.'  " 

"There  is  no  need  of  going  back  to  King 
David,"  said  Dalziel,  lifting  his  glass;  "here  am 
I,  a  living  witness  to  the  happiness  that  flows 
from  the  social  glass." 

It  had  afforded  Lady  Marion  no  little  satisfac- 
tion that  approaching  poverty  prevented  her  fa- 
ther from  replenishing  the  wine-cellar.  She  re- 
membered her  mother's  sad  face  when  her  hus- 
band lingered  too  long  over  the  cup,  and  on  her 
death-bed  she  had  begged  him  to  banish  it  alto- 
gether. 

Lady  Marion  had  liked  Ainslie  from  their 
first  meeting,  and  the  two  young  people  soon 
grew  very  fond  of  each  other.  Roger  often  rode 
to  the  chase  casting  wistful  glances  behind,  and 
Marion  counted  the  hours  before  his  return. 

Dalziel  also  paid  the  young  lady  much  atten- 
tion, but  it  was  not  pleasing  to  her,  and  it  soon 


i2  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

became  evident  that  she  avoided  his  society.  Sir 
William  supposed  that  a  word  from  him  would 
put  a  different  face  on  affairs,  and  he  lost  no  time 
in  giving  the  advice  he  thought  so  necessary. 
But  he  had  not  counted  on  the  strength  of  his 
daughter's  will.  The  interview  was  a  very  un- 
pleasant one.  Words  ran  high,  for  Sir  William 
was  determined  to  carry  his  point,  and  Marion 
had  much  of  the  Campbell  spirit  that  he  had  loved 
to  see  till  it  ran  counter  to  his  wishes.  After  quite 
a  while,  since  Marion  remained  firm,  her  father 
said,  "  I  wull  give  you  twa  days,  my  lass,  to  con- 
sider whether  you  wull  be  guided  by  your  father's 
wishes  or  your  ain  notions.  If  your  decision  does 
not  please  me  you  may  live  to  repent  it." 

The  time  given  her  for  consideration  was 
wholly  unnecessary,  for  Marion  knew  that  she 
could  as  well  answer  at  once  as  two  days  later.' 
However,  she  made  no  answer,  but  went  to  her 
room  with  a  look  of  determination  that  spoke  as 
plainly  as  words. 

Marion's  mother  was  dead  and  she  sought  no 
adviser.  But  her  old  nurse  and  warm  friend, 
Blspeth  Lundie,  had  overheard  all  that  Sir  Wil- 
liam had  said,  and  she  was  deeply  interested. 
Lady  Marion  had  never  borne  herself  haughtily 
towards  Elspeth,  and  the  old  servant  was  accus- 
tomed to  speak  freely  about  many  things,  though 


SIR  WILLIAM'S  DISAPPOINTMENT.         13 

her  mistress  reserved  the  right  to  make  use  of  the 
advice  or  not  as  suited  her.  Upon  this  occasion 
Elspeth  began,  ' '  Dear  heart,  but  you  are  in  a 
sair  strait  noo. ' ' 

Marion  looked  up  with  surprise,  and  Elspeth 
continued,  ' '  Indeed,  I  hae  heard  ilka  ward  atween 
yoursel'  an'  your  faither. ' ' 

' '  Then  you  have  more  knowledge  o'  my  affairs 
than  I  wish  you  to  have.  Where  were  you,  El- 
speth?" 

UI  was  in  the  next  room  sortin'  an'  pittin' 
awa'  the  claes  that  wunna  be  needed  till  the  cauld 
winds  o'  winter  blaw." 

"  You  are  late  wi'  that  wark,  my  gude  El- 
speth." 

' '  Ay,  I  am ;  but  wha  can  see  till  her  ain  wark 
an'  the  wark  o'  another  too?  Ye  ken  that  the 
hoose  has  been  that  fu'  o'  company  o'  late  that 
Katy  has  called  upon  me  mair  than  is  gude  for 
my  ain  part  o'  the  wark.  But  I  wadna  mak' 
complaint,  an'  that  isna  what  I  wush  to  speak  o'. 
Noo,  I  wad  be  slow  to  set  ony  bairn  against  the 
wushes  o'  a  parent  except  I  saw  it  was  my  duty, 
an'  I  see  nae  ither  way  to  leuk  at  this  matter. 
Yon  Dal^iel  is  a  bad  mon,  a  vera  bad  mon.  I 
can  see  that  muckle  i'  his  countenance.  Noo,  I 
wadna  speak  o'  what  is  nane  o'  my  business;  but 
I  feel  that  I  wad  ill  requite  the  kindness  o'  your 


i4  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

mither  that's  awa'  an'  I  didna  cry  oot  ag'in'  sic 
as  he  when  he  wad  seek  to  win  her  daughter. 
Ye  see  I  ken  mair  than  I  ance  did;  I  haena  lived 
forty  an'  five  years  for  naught." 

"  Nae,  Elspeth,  you  haena  lived  for  naught. 
Ye  hae  your  head  well  stored  wi'  sound  sense, 
an'  your  heart  hasna  been  neglected  either;  for  o' 
all  this  I  hae  daily  proof.  But  dinna  fret  about 
me.  I  wull  win  my  way  through  the  twa  days 
an'  give  my  answer  as  suits  myselV 

"It  wull  be  best  sae,"  said  Elspeth  wisely, 
"for  I  hae  kenned  merriges  mony,  an'  I  hae 
heard  o'  mony  mair,  that  hae  turned  oot  badly. 
I  could  tell  you,  an'  I  would;  but  some  things 
wull  die  wi'  me  for  a'  I  wull  let  them  slip  frae 
my  tongue.  There  is  oft  a  haill  warld  o'  trouble 
shut  up  in  ane  woman's  heart,  an'  mony  an  ane 
is  killed  by  it.  Still  I  alloo  that  there  be  happy 
merried  folk;  I  micht  hae  tried  sic  a  life  mysel' 
an'  Robin  hadna  died." 

Lady  Marion  had  no  mind  just  then  to  hear 
the  oft-repeated  story  of  Elspeth' s  courtship,  so 
she  changed  the  subject. 

Although  Marion  showed  no  anxiety  in  the 
presence  of  others,  at  night,  in  the  solitude  of  her 
own  chamber,  her  pent-up  feelings  found  vent  in 
tears  and  sobs;  for  she  well  knew  that  if  she  re- 
fused Dalziel  it  would  hasten  his  departure  and 


SIR  WILLIAM'S  DISAPPOINTMENT.         15 

Ainslie's  also,  and  that  neither  would  be  likely  to 
return.  Old  Elspeth  had  been  sleeping  lightly 
in  an  adjoining  room.  She  heard  the  first  sob 
and  listened  but  a  short  time  ere  she  stole  softly 
into  Marion's  chamber,  and  laying  her  hand 
gently  on  her  shoulder,  said,  4 '  Puir  lamb,  puir 
lamb!" 

"  Elspeth,  gude  Elspeth,  gang  to  your  rest.  I 
am  sorry  that  I  disturbed  you, ' '  said  Lady  Marion. 

"Gang  to  my  rest,  hinny,  and  leave  you 
your  lane?  I  trow  not.  I  wad  be  ashamed  to 
leuk  you  in  the  face  an'  I  didna  show  that  I  sor- 
row for  the  sorrows  o'  my  ain  bonnie  leddy.  I 
hae  come  to  speak  to  you  o'  Him  wha  is  ahint  a' 
that  concerns  the  children  o'  men.  Gang  to  God, 
dearie,  gang  to  him.  It  is  easy  for  him  to  bring 
licht  oot  o'  seeming  darkness.  Ane  wee  wave  o' 
his  hand  can  scatter  a'  the  clouds  aboon  us.  I 
ken  that  it  doesna  always  seem  his  wull  to  scatter 
them  a'  at  ance.  I  hae  waited  lang  mysel'  to  see 
a  bit  rift  i'  the  cloudy  nicht  o'  trouble;  but  it 
grew  murkier  an'  murkier ;  the  clouds  didna 
break  awa',  but  aboon  them  for  ane  wee  minute 
glinted  the  wards,  'My  grace  shall  be  sufficient 
for  thee.'  Noo,  hinny,  ye  canna  tell  what  way 
he  wull  tak'  to  help  you;  but  leave  it  i'  his  han' 
an'  it  wull  be  weel. ' ' 

"I  ken  that,  an'  it  comforts  me.     Now  leave 


16  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

me,  gude  Blspeth.  I  havena  a  doubt  o'  your 
sympathy,  but  I  would  rather  be  alone." 

"  Ye  wull  greet  owre  inuckle." 

"Well,  I  wull  greet  an'  hae  done  wi'  it 
Tears  maun  fall,  Elspeth.  I  can  well  believe 
that  this  warld  o'  ours  was  but  young  ere  they 
began  to  fall.  It  isna  the  raindrops  alane  that 
water  the  earth.  It  drinks  in  the  sweat  o'  the 
oppressed,  the  tears  o'  the  sorrowing,  an'  the 
bluido'  the  slain." 

"Oh,  my  dear  leddy,  you  are  findin'  oot  sic 
things  too  early.  Ye  maunna  forget  that  God 
has  made  a  bonnie,  bonnie  warld;  mon  inaistly 
makes  the  sorrow  an'  the  trouble  intil  it.  I  wush 
that  you  could  be  kept  frae  the  troubles  that  are 
abroad  in  it.  I  could  find  it  i'  my  heart  to  wush 
that  tears  might  never  dim  the  licht  in  youre'e." 

"Weel,  gang  noo  an'  I  wunna  greet;  least- 
ways, na  sae  sairly. " 

Lady  Marion  was  true  to  her  promise.  She 
soon  committed  her  care  to  God,  as  her  faithful 
old  friend  had  directed,  and  gave  herself  to  sleep. 

The  next  day  wore  away  and  the  second  was 
nearing  its  close  when  Sir  William  called  his 
daughter  to  him.  "Weel,"  he  began,  "hae  ye 
come  to  your  senses,  lass  ?  Hoo  about  givin'  up 
Ainslie  an'  closin'  in  wi'  an  offer  warthy  o'  ac- 
ceptance?" 


SIR  WILLIAM'S  DISAPPOINTMENT.         17 

"  I  catma  wed  Dalziel." 

"That  isna  your  answer?" 

"  Ay,  that  is  my  answer.  I  may  repent  of  it, 
as  you  say,  but  I  would  be  mair  likely  to  repent 
an'  I  accepted  him.  That  is  simply  impossible;  I 
canna  wed  him.  I  hae  but  one  life  to  live  i'  this 
warld,  an'  I  amaist  wish  that  I  hadna  that,  or 
that  I  could  exchange  places  wi'  Katy  or  some 
other  serving  lass,  if  I  could  be  free  frae  the  wea- 
risome plotting  and  planning  about  matrimony." 

"Gang  to  your  ain  room,  Marion,  and  dinna 
leave  it  the  nicht.  Ainslie  wull  be  awa'  i'  the 
morn;  an'  that  isna  a':  the  dure  o'  my  hame 
wull  be  for  ever  closed  against  him. ' ' 

Marion  went  to  her  own  room  and  locked  the 
door.  Before  long  Elspeth  was  at  the  keyhole 
asking,  ' '  May  I  na  come  in  ?' ' 

"  Not  now;  an  hour  later  you  may  come." 

That  evening  Roger  Ainslie  missed  Lady 
Marion  and  could  not  divine  the  cause  of  her 
absence  until  Sir  William  gave  him  to  under- 
stand that  his  presence  was  no  longer  desired  by 
the  master  of  the  castle. 

Blspeth  did  not  fail  to  be  at  Marion's  door  at 
the  time  appointed.  Her  mistress  handed  her  a 
letter  and  said,  "I  hae  something  to  commit  to 
your  care.  Give  this  note  to  Mr.  Ainslie  if  you 
can  do  sae  without  attracting  attention." 

Lady  Marlon's  Answer.  2 


i8  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWKR. 

The  letter  was  delivered,  and  Roger  Ainslie 
entrusted  Elspeth  with  this  message:  "Tell  Lady 
Marion  that  I  shall  never  forget  her,  and  I  hope 
to  meet  her  again. ' ' 

When  Lady  Marion  awoke  next  morning  she 
heard  voices  without,  and  she  lifted  the  curtain 
so  that  she  could  see  without  being  seen.  Dalziel 
and  Ainslie  were  mounted  and  ready  to  set  spurs 
to  their  horses.  Ainslie's  eyes  were  scanning  the 
upper  windows  of  the  castle  with  a  look  of  ex- 
pectancy on  his  face  that  soon  gave  place  to  dis^ 
appointment,  and  they  rode  away. 

Marion  Campbell  threw  herself  back  on  hei 
couch,  saying,  "  I  will  keep  my  room  long  enough 
to  please  faither.  He  sent  me  frae  him;  now  he 
will  send  for  me  ere  he  sees  me  again." 


BREAKING    UP  THE   ESTATE.  19 


CHAPTER  II. 

BREAKING  UP  THE   ESTATE. 

SIR  WILLIAM  was  very  sullen  after  the  de- 
parture of  his  guests.  He  scolded  the  men  and 
kicked  the  dogs  aud  seemed  determined  to  vent 
his  displeasure  on  something.  The  old  servants 
remarked  to  each  other,  ' '  The  maister  is  that 
dour  that  he  canna  speak  a  pleasant  ward  to 
mon  or  beast. ' '  He  was  a  terror  to  others  and  a 
trouble  to  himself.  He  missed  his  daughter,  al- 
though he  was  still  angry  with  her.  As  even- 
ing approached  he  asked  Elspeth,  "Is  your  leddy 
na  weel  ?' ' 

"Ay,  she  is  weel;  leastways,  she  mak's  nae 
complaint  aboot  her  health." 

He  said  no  more  and  soon  retired.  Elspeth 
was  glad  that  he  did  so,  and  she  persuaded  Marion 
to  go  down  and  enjoy  the  pleasant  evening  breeze. 
The  two  women  walked  around  the  grounds  a 
while.  The  old  castle  looked  lovely  in  the  moon- 
light, and  a  pang  shot  through  Marion's  heart 
and  for  a  moment  she  was  almost  in  sympathy 
with  her  father's  plans.  The  walls  had  sheltered 
the  Campbell  family  for  seven  generations  ;  they 


20  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

had  shut  out  cold  and  heat  and  the  prying  gaze 
of  the  curious;  they  had  shut  in  all  that  makes 
home  a  delight.  Now  its  owner  was  vexed  day 
after  day  by  adverse  circumstances,  so  that  the 
dear  old  walls  might  go  to  strangers  unless  some- 
thing interposed.  Marion  began  to  see  how  her 
father  could  fall  in  with  any  lawful  plan  to  render 
him  more  secure  in  his  ancient  heritage.  Then 
came  the  thought  of  the  long  years  that  she  would 
be  obliged  to  endure  the  bonds  of  unhappy,  un- 
blessed wedlock — unhappy  because  of  unconge- 
niality,  unblessed  because  underlaid  with  wrong 
motives.  Then  another  thought  came  to  her, 
that  if  she  commenced  life  with  such  mercenary 
motives,  her  heart  would  in  all  probability  grow 
more  and  more  hardened  through  the  deceitful- 
ness  of  riches;  she  might  even  gain  all  she  could 
desire  in  this  life  and  in  the  end  lose  her  own 
soul.  Then  castle  walls,  castle  grounds,  and  all 
the  ancient  landmarks  sank  into  insignificance 
and  she  grew  strong — strong  to  meet  and  to  strug- 
gle with  poverty  if  need  be,  strong  to  brook  her 
father's  displeasure,  perhaps  vented  in  taunts 
and  jeers.  She  looked  up  to  the  pale  clouds 
above  her  and  her  heart  went  out  to  Him  who 
sits  above  them.  She  breathed  an  earnest  prayer 
that  God  would  enable  her  to  lead  a  pure,  sweet, 
and  noble  life,  to  walk  in  his  fear,  and  to  count 


BREAKING  UP  THE  ESTATE.        21 

his  approval  her  chief  good.  'Then  speaking 
aloud,  she  said,  "  L,et  us  gang  in,  Elspeth." 

When  her  father  sent  for  her  the  next  morn- 
ing she  went  to  him  pale  .and  trembling.  She 
was  neither  angry  nor  fearful;  but  she  sorrowed 
for  his  disturbed  mind  and  because  he  had  found 
no  place  to  lay  down  his  cares  and  burdens.  He 
attributed  her  agitation  to  dread  of  himself,  and  he 
held  out  his  hand,  saying,  "Marion,  child,  I  am 
not  angry  wi'  you,  leastways,  not  noo;  but  I  am 
sae  disappointed.  It  is  maistly  for  your  ain  sake 
that  I  wish  to  hae  our  fortunes  mended.  Alas! 
the  spoiler  wull  soon  be  upon  us.  Cragsby  Castle 
wull  soon  be  shorn  of  its  ancient  honors.  On  me 
an'  on  mine  must  fall  the  calamity." 

His  head  bent  forward  as  he  ceased  speaking. 
He  gave  his  daughter's  hand  a  gentle  pressure. 
She  returned  it  and  then  said,  ' '  Faither,  we  need 
not  be  wretched." 

"  Nae?     What  hae  we  to  keep  us  frae  it?" 

"Each  other  and  the  providence  of  God  over 
us." 

"It  is  gude  for  you  to  take  comfort  oot  o'  sic 
thoughts.  There  may  be  somat  in  them." 

It  never  occurred  to  Sir  William  that  he  had 
been  the  cause  of  sorrow  to  his  child  in  sending 
Ainslie  away  so  abruptly.  But  Marion  felt  no 
resentment.  She  looked  down  with  an  expression 


22  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

of  pitying  love  on  the  bowed  head  too  early  sil- 
vered. Her  father  roused  himself  and  asked, 
"Do  you  feel  equal  to  a  long  walk  the  mom?" 

Marion  consented  and  went  to  put  on  her  bon- 
net. Elspeth  met  her  in  the  hall  and  asked, 
"  Where  noo,  hinny  ?" 

"  I  am  going  to  walk  wi'  faither." 

"Hae  ye  made  it  up  atween  you?" 

"  Ay,  gude  Elspeth,  thanks  to  Ane  aboon." 

" Thanks  to  him  indeed."  Then  she  added 
softly,  "He  bauds  the  hearts  o'  men." 

"The  morning  air  wull  do  us  baith  gude," 
remarked  Sir  William  as  he  and  Marion  walked 
along.  ' '  May  it  gie  me  strength  to  say  what  maun 
soon  be  made  known.  I  could  hae  held  oot  a 
while  longer  wi'  a  different  prospect,  but  noo  the 
worst  maun  come." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  till  they  came  to  a 
stile.  Sir  William  sat  down  and  motioned  for 
Marion  to  sit  beside  him.  Then,  pointing  with 
his  cane,  he  said,  "See  ye  the  bonnie  meadow- 
Ian'  an'  all  that  woody  height  ahint  it?" 

"Ay,  faither." 

"  Weel,  it  maun  gang  to  pay  back  the  siller  I 
hae  borrowed  frae  time  to  time. ' ' 

"  We  wull  still  hae  the  castle  an'  a'  the  rest 
o'  the  land  with  the  cots  upon  it,  wull  we  na?" 

"Ay,  for  a  while  onyway;  but  I  am   vera 


BREAKING  UP  THE   ESTATE.  23 

loath  to  sell  an  acre  o'  ground  frae  the  estate.  It 
wull  seem  sae  strange,  nearly  a  quarter  o'  the 
Ian'  to  gang !  The  half  o'  the  men  maun  gang 
tae." 

"Weel,  that  wull  cut  doon  our  expenses." 

' '  Ay,  but  that  isna  all.  It  wull  cut  doon  oor 
respectability  tae." 

' '  I  am  but  a  lass,  an'  if  I  canna  build  up  the 
name  an'  the  house,  you  shall  see  that  I  can  bear 
reverses  without  complaint." 

' '  Can  you,  though  ?  That  wull  be  a  comfort 
to  me." 

Soon  after  this  conversation  Sir  William  sold 
enough  land  to  meet  all  the  claims  that  were 
pressing  hard  upon  him,  but  it  hurt  him  to  break 
up  his  patrimony.  He  became  moody  and  sullen. 
Sometimes  he  found  fault  with  Marion  because 
she  had  disappointed  his  hopes,  and  oftener  he 
mourned  in  silence.  This  was  hard  for  his  daugh- 
ter to  bear,  and  she  tried  to  amuse  him.  She 
planned  many  a  pleasant  walk  and  ride,  but  she 
was  not  able  to  rouse  him  from  his  dejection. 

During  these  changes  no  one  watched  Sir  Wil- 
liam more  closely  than  did  Elspeth.  She  thought 
that  her  master  had  reached  a  critical  period  in 
his  life;  that  he  would  either  go  downward  much 
faster  than  ever  or  would  rise  above  his  trou- 
bles and  attain  to  a  noble  Christian  manhood. 


24  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

Blspeth  was  a  woman  of  strong  sense  and  still 
stronger  devotion,  and  the  family  at  Cragsby  cas- 
tle held  a  place  in  her  heart  second  only  to  that 
of  her  God. 

One  morning  a  few  weeks  later,  when  Lady 
Marion  and  her  father  returned  from  a  drive, 
Blspeth  remarked  to  her  mistress, 

"  I  think  that  your  faither's  spirits  are  coming 
up  a  bit;  he  doesna  seem  sae  muckle  cast  doon. 
It  gives  me  great  pleasure,  I  can  tell  you,  for  al- 
though I  hae  held  my  peace  an'  na  meddled  wi' 
matters  too  high  for  the  likes  o?  me,  I  hae  been 
afeared  that  the  maister  was  near-han'  givin'  up 
a'thegither." 

"You  are  richt,  Elspeth ;  his  spirits  seem 
mending,  for  which  none  wha  are  interested  in 
his  welfare  should  fail  to  be  thankfu',  least  o'  any 
his  ain  daughter." 

"There  is  nae  fear  that  you  wunna  be  thank- 
fu' sin'  you  hae  grown  sae  muckle  like  her  wha 
is  awa'.  It  was  a  thankfu'  heart  that  she  carried 
within  her.  I  believe  that  she  wad  hae  been  weel 
content  wi'  ony  poseetion  in  life  an'  she  kenned 
that  the  same  was  God's  gude  wull.  Your  mither 
aye  seemed  to  be  leukin'  awa'  to  heaven  to  be  led 
by  Him  wha  gives  wisdom  to  a',  wha  gives  lib- 
erally an'  upbraideth  not.  But  I  am  standin' 
here  owre  lang ;  the  new  kitchen  maid  is  but  a 


BREAKING  UP  THE   ESTATE.  25 

sorry  han'  at  makin'  a  dinner.  I  trow  that  the 
maister's  meals  wadna  gie  him  muckle  satisfac- 
tion an'  I  didna  tak'  matters  i'  my  ain  han's. 
Noo  I  maun  gang  straight  to  the  garden.  I  see 
that  the  ingons  are  fu'  size,  an'  I  ken  weel  that 
the  maister  is  richt  fond  o'  them." 

When  Blspeth  left  her,  Marion  let  her  em- 
broidery fall  into  her  lap  and  sat  thinking,  think- 
ing. Her  father  entered  the  adjoining  room  and 
sat  watching  her.  Presently  he  said,  "Of  what 
are  you  thinkin'  sae  intently,  my  lassie?" 

"  I  canna  just  tell,  but  I  think  it  was  maistly 
aboot  our  twa  selves,  an'  whether  we  mayna  as 
well  be  happy  as  na  to  be. ' ' 

u  I  daur  say  we  wad  live  the  langer  for  it,  an' 
I  alloo  that  we  owe  it  to  oorsel's.  But  to  ken 
the  richt  isna  to  do  it. ' ' 

"That  is  true ;  but  to  ken  the  right  an'  then 
to  set  aboot  trying  after  it  wull  nae  doot  produce 
gude  results." 

"  Weel,  what  shall  we  do  first?" 

"  If  I  should  presume  to  counsel  you,  I  would 
say,  let  us  be  thankful  for  the  blessings  that  we 
hae  left  to  us." 

"  That  is  weel  said,  I  hae  nae  doot ;  but,  Mar- 
ion, you  canna  expect  me  to  forget  the  big  mead- 
ows. ' ' 

"  Nae,  but  you  hae  meadows  left.    The  horses 


26  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

an'  the  kine  an'  the  sheep  will  hae  plenty  to 
eat,  an'  there  is  enough  for  ourselves  and  for  the 
servants.  Isna  that  muckle  cause  for  grati- 
tude?" 

"Ay,  ay,  there  is  mony  an  ane  mair  deserv- 
in'  than  I  am  wha  hasna  as  muckle  as  I  hae. 
But,  lass,  I  wunna  want  to  hear  the  music  o'  the 
scythes  yonder  an'  think  that  my  men  dinna  han- 
dle them,  nor  I  dinna  want  to  hear  the  axes  on 
the  woodlands  an'  remember  that  auld  Felix  Cam- 
eron has  given  the  ward  to  strike  doon  the  trees. 
I  tell  you,  lass,  it  is  hard. ' ' 

There  was  a  perceptible  tremor  in  his  voice, 
and  Marion  felt  that  it  had  been  no  light  thing 
for  her  father  to  part  with  a  portion  of  his  inher- 
itance. She  lifted  up  her  heart  to  God,  asking 
him  to  give  her  fitting  words  to  answer.  After  a 
moment  she  spoke. 

"There  is  another  inheritance,  and  to  mak' 
sure  o'  that  we  maun  hold  warldly  riches  wi'  a 
loose  grasp.  You  mind  the  question  o'  our  Lord : 
'  What  shall  it  profit  a  mon  if  he  gain  the  whole 
warld  an*  lose  his  ain  soul,  or  what  wull  a  inon 
give  in  exchange  for  his  soul  ?'  " 

"That  is  sae,  that  is  sae.  Whiles  it  is  borne 
in  upon  my  mind  that  there  is  muckle  i'  that.  I 
ken  weel  that  I  canna  clutch  my  deeds  an'  titles 
when  grim  daith  comes  for  me,  an'  I  wad  like 


BREAKING   UP  THE   ESTATE.  27 

weel  to  keep  him  at  a  distance.  But  ilka  day 
brings  him  nearer;  that  canna  be  denied." 

"Well,  sin'  it  is  sae,  we  should  mak'  ready  to 
welcome  him." 

4 'Mak'  ready  to  welcome  daith,  Marion?" 

"Ay,  we  can  and  should  welcome  him,  since 
it  is  he  wha  opens  the  passage-way  between  the 
twa  worlds.  How  can  we  win  into  heaven  if  we 
dinna  meet  wi'  daith?  Do  you  think  that  he 
wull  wear  the  same  dark  look  when  he  comes  for 
the  saint  as  when  he  comes  for  the  sinner?  I 
canna  think  that  he  wull." 

' '  It  may  be  that  he  wunna ;  I  hae  ni ver  thought 
o'  that" 

"  I  suppose  that  I  hae  gotten  that  thought  frae 
a  story  that  Blspeth  told  me.  She  said  that  ance 
her  grandmither  was  up  o'  nights  wi'  twa  sick 
folk.  Ane  was  a  very  gude,  the  ither  a  very  bad 
woman,  an'  the  twa  were  sisters.  Well,  one  night 
the  clock  had  just  struck  twelve  when  she  heard 
a  rustling.  She  looked  up  an'  a  dark,  powerful, 
ill-shapen  figure  stood  by  the  bedside  o'  the  sinful 
woman,  an'  in  his  hand  he  held  a  black  wand. 
He  beckoned  wi'  the  wand  three  times,  an'  some- 
thing as  black  as  himself  came  out  o'  the  prostrate 
form  o'  the  woman  an'  she  breathed  never  after. 
Well,  twa  nights  after,  Blspeth  said  it  was,  her 
grandmither  was  watchin'  by  the  ither  sister,  but 


28  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

not  alane,  for  she  was  fu'  o'  fear,  you  see.  She 
heard  the  same  rustling,  but  at  first  she  didna 
dare  look  up.  When  she  did,  a  figure  i'  white 
stood  there,  an'  it  smiled  on  the  poor,  sufferin' 
saint.  She  stretched  out  her  hands  wi'  a  beseech- 
in'  look.  The  figure  beckoned,  an'  something 
softly  white  followed,  an'  this  woman  too  was  nae 
mair  in  the  land  o'  the  livin'.  Elspeth  says  that 
her  grandmither  aye  believed  that  she  had  seen 
daith  with  her  natural  eyes,  but  ilka  ither  person 
wha  heard  her  tell  aboot  it  thought  it  was  a  dream. 
Elspeth  thinks  she  was  dreaming  baith  times,  an' 
the  lass  wha  was  with  her  said  that  the  auld  dame 
slept  till  the  sick  woman  was  beyond  her  care — 
she  was  dead. ' ' 

"I  like  not  sic  dreams;  they  disturb  me. 
Daith  is  sic  a  mysterious  thing,  Marion.  Oor 
friends  are  wi'  us  an'  then  they  are  awa',  an'  we 
can  nae  mair  get  a  ward  frae  their  lips  than  if  they 
were  stane.  Did  I  na  feel  that  when  your  mither 
died  ?  I  am  loath  to  confess  it,  but  my  feelings 
are  soft  the  day.  How  often  she  wad  follow  me 
to  hae  speech  o'  things  that  would  hae  been  o' 
profit  to  me  had  I  listened,  but  I  was  a  puir  lis- 
tener. After  she  was  dead  I  would  hae  given  all 
that  I  possessed  to  hear  that  gentle  voice  sayin', 
'  William  dear,  hae  you  time  to  talk  a  bit?'  But 
nae,  there  was  nevermore  to  escape  frae  those  lips 


BREAKING   UP  THE   ESTATE.  29 

word  nor  sigh,  an'  o'  the  last  I  uiaun  confess  there 
were  full  mony.  I  was  sorry  it  was  sae,  and  I 
sat  down  i'  the  darkness  beside  my  lifeless  Isabel 
an'  took  her  slender  han'  in  my  ain.  It  gave  me  a 
chill,  but  I  still  held  it  an'  prayed  but  for  ane  wee 
sign  o'  forgiveness  an'  love.  No  sound  was  heard 
but  the  ticking  o'  the  clock,  seemin'  to  speak 
loudly,  and  to  speak  these  words:  'It's  a'  past, 
it's  a'  past.'  I  couldna  bear  it,  an'  I  muttered 
atween  my  teeth,  'I  wull  stop  your  lying  tongue; 
for  if  she  canna  tell  me  sae,  she  still  forgives  me 
an'  loves  me. '  Weel,  the  next  morning  Elspeth 
marvelled  that  the  auld  clock  had  stopped,  an'  I 
didna  tell  her  that  I  had  stopped  it  because  I 
couldna  bear  to  hear  it. ' ' 

Both  Sir  William  and  his  daughter  were  in 
tears,  but  they  did  not  long  indulge  them.  ' '  I 
said  awhile  ago,"  said  Sir  William,  wiping  his 
eyes,  uthat  daith  is  a  mysterious  thing;  sae  is  life 
mysterious.  We  gang  the  same  round — eat,  drink, 
sleep,  wark,  an'  live,  maistly  for  creature  com- 
forts— till  daith  comes  to  change  all.  Weel,  so  it 
wull  be  till  the  end  o'  the  warld." 

' '  Yes, ' '  answered  Marion,  and  she  repeated 
the  words  of  our  Lord,  "  '  As  it  was  in  the  days 
of  Noah,  so  shall  it  be  in  the  days  of  the  Son  of 
Man."' 


20  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

CHAPTER   III. 
DALZIEL'S  SECOND  VISIT. 

SIR  WILLIAM  was  not  always  in  the  repentant 
mood  in  which  we  found  him  in  the  last  chapter. 
He  was  groping  after  truth  and  he  had  some  as- 
pirations after  a  better  life,  but  his  mind  was  not 
fixed.  He  was  wavering  between  a  love  of  that 
which  is  seen  and  temporal  and  that  which  is  un- 
seen and  eternal.  Three  years  passed,  leaving 
him  in  a  state  of  unrest.  Especially  did  he  chafe 
each  year  when  the  time  of  haymaking  came 
around.  He  would  say,  "  Auld  Felix  is  at  those 
meadows  again,"  and  he  would  be  miserable  un- 
til the  last  load  of  hay  disappeared  from  his  sight. 

About  this  time  Malcolm  Dalziel  again  came 
to  the  castle.  He  said  to  Sir  William,  "I  hae 
come  to  try  my  luck  again.  Perhaps  Lady  Mar- 
ion wull  change  her  mind  when  she  kens  what  I 
hae  to  tell  her." 

"What  can  you  tell  her  that  wull  wark  sic  a 
change?" 

"  You  ken  that  she  liked  Ainslie  well." 

"It  may  be  that  she  did,  puir  lass;  but  what 
o'  him?" 


SECOND   VISIT.  31 

"Weel,  he  is  dead  an'  gone;  leastways  he  set 
oot  to  cross  over  to  Belfast  in  an  auld  craft  that 
was  mair  like  a  cockleshell  than  a  vessel;  but  he 
couldna  hae  made  the  port,  for  he  hasna  been 
heard  frae. " 

"  You  dinna  tell  me  sae?" 

"Ay,  but  I  do.  He  has  gone  doon,  that  is 
sure,  or  the  bairns  wad  hae  had  news  frae  him. ' ' 

"What  bairns,  Dalziel?" 

"His  brither's  bairns.  You  ken  that  the 
brither  was  a  merchant  in  Belfast.  Weel,  he 
died  six  months  since  an'  left  a  lad  an'  a  lass; 
their  mither  has  been  dead  mony  a  year.  Folk 
said  that  his  business  was  in  a  bad  state,  an'  the 
bairns  were  sent  to  Roger.  There  was  naething 
left  but  some  household  gear  that  had  belonged  to 
Roger's  mither.  He  was  loath  to  give  it  up,  an' 
set  out  to  bring  it  hame  in  the  cheapest  way,  but 
I  am  thinking  it  was  a  dear  way  to  him,  puir 
lad.  I  maun  say  that  I  liked  Roger  Ainslie.  If 
it  had  been  another  man  who  stood  in  my  way  as 
he  did  here,  I  dinna  ken  what  I  wad  hae  dune  wi' 
him." 

"I  marvelled  hoo  you  could  feel  sae  friendly 
towards  him." 

"Weel,  he  saved  my  life,  you  ken." 

"  Nae,  I  didna  ken  that.     Hoo  was  it?" 

"  It  was  when  we  were  lads  at  school.     Ains- 


32  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

lie  was  aye  a  douce  laddie;  he  didna  care  for  the 

cup,  you  ken." 

"  Ay,"  assented  Sir  William. 

"Weel,"  continued  Dalziel,  "I  was  pretty 
weel  fuddled  one  night,  that  is,  for  a  lad,  an'  as  I 
was  about  to  cross  a  bridge  on  the  way  hame 
Ainslie  came  up  on  the  other  side.  I  lost  my 
balance  and  I  pitched  doon  in  the  deep  waters.  I 
thought  I  heard  him  cry  oot,  'God  help  me!' 
an'  God  maun  hae  helped  him,  for  he  found  me 
an'  helped  me  ashore.  Do  you  wonder  noo  that 
we  were  friends?" 

"Nae,"  said  Sir  William;  "you  did  weel  to 
remember  him.  An'  noo  he  lies  aneath  the  wa- 
ters himsel',  puir  wight !" 

"Sae  it  seems.  Weel,  I  couldna  save  him, 
but  I  think  I  maun  do  something  for  those  bairns. 
They  were  dependent  on  Roger  for  their  support. ' ' 

The  reader  will  not  be  surprised  that  Dalziel' s 
second  attempt  to  win  Marion  was  no  more  suc- 
cessful than  the  first.  Sir  William  was  more 
than  half  persuaded  that  it  was  his  right  to  insist 
upon  Marion's  acceptance  of  his  hand.  But  his 
daughter  answered  quietly,  "I  gave  my  answer 
years  ago,  an'  I  hae  nae  mind  to  change  it." 

If  Dalziel  felt  any  resentment  he  restrained  it, 
and  almost  made  Marion  his  friend  by  his  seem- 
ing interest  in  the  Ainslie  children.  Before  he 


DALZIEL'S  SECOND  VISIT.  33 

left  he  obtained  Sir  William's  consent  to  receive 
the  children  for  a  while  at  the  castle,  urging  that 
the  country  air  would  do  them  much  good.  He 
left  a  few  pounds  in  advance  as  a  proof  that  he 
intended  to  meet  the  expense  of  the  experiment 

He  was  scarcely  out  of  sight  ere  Sir  William 
entered  into  a  conversation  with  his  daughter  that 
ended  in  a  stormy  discussion,  for  he  was  angry  at 
her  refusal  of  Dalziel.  "It  is  too  bad,  Marion, 
that  you  are  sae  self-willed.  You  canna  care 
muckle  for  your  auld  faither.  I  am  sair  pressed 
even  noo  for  a  hundred  pounds,  an'  where  is  it  to 
come  frae  ?  Yes, ' '  he  repeated,  raising  his  voice, 
' ( I  say,  where  are  the  hundred  pounds  to  come 
frae?" 

Nurse  Klspeth  was  sewing  by  the  window 
during  this  conversation.  Suddenly  dropping  her 
work  she  left  the  room,  and  returned  soon  with  a 
heavy  purse  in  her  hand,  which  she  held  out  to 
her  master,  saying,  ' '  Here  are  a  hundred  pounds 
in  gude  Scots'  money.  Ye  are  welcome  to  its 
use  free  o'  charge." 

"But,  Elspeth,  I  maunna  take  your  hard- 
earned  siller. ' ' 

"Troth  an'  you  maun,  maister.  What  is  sil- 
ler to  me  in  comparison  wi'  the  peace  o'  my  dear 
leddy?" 

Sir  William  stood  thinking  and  Elspeth  turned 

Lady  Marlon's  Answer.  7 


34  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

to  go  away,  but  her  master  held  out  the  purse  and 
repeated,  "Nae,  nae,  Elspeth,  I  canna  take  your 
siller." 

"Take  it  for  the  present  onyway,  sin'  you 
are  in  need.  I  hope  you  may  never  take  a  favor 
from  onybody  less  wullin'  to  accommodate  than 
Elspeth  Lundie,  your  ain  humble  servant. ' ' 

Marion  went  to  her  own  apartment,  her  heart 
filled  with  conflicting  emotions.  Here  was  an- 
other strong  proof  of  Elspeth' s  devotion,  for  Mari- 
on knew  how  carefully  her  old  servant  had  hoard- 
ed her  earnings.  Her  heart  was  sad  for  the  dis- 
appointment of  her  father;  but  more  than  all  she 
sorrowed  for  the  untimely  fate  of  Ainslie.  She 
never  realized  till  that  moment  how  deep  and 
strong  had  been  her  feelings  for  him. 

"  Puir  tossed  heart !"  said  Elspeth  as  Marion 
left  the  room. 

Sir  William  felt  ashamed  that  his  servant  had 
heard  him  speak  so  severely  to  his  daughter,  but 
he  also  experienced  a  feeling  of  relief  that  he  was 
now  enabled  to  meet  his  obligations. 

"Elspeth  is  a  gude  soul;  it  wad  be  weel  for 
me  an'  I  were  as  gude,"  was  his  mental  com- 
ment. 

That  evening  Lady  Marion  sought  Elspeth 
and  said,  "  I  am  come  to  you,  gude  Elspeth;  I 
am  lonely  by  mysel'." 


SECOND  VISIT.  35 

' '  Puir  lamb,  I  ken  weel  the  heart  o'  you  is 
sair.  Eh,  do  I  na  ken  it  ?  Only  those  wha  hae 
experienced  sic  trouble  can  understand  it.  Robin 
has  been  dead  mair  than  a  score  o'  years,  an' 
though  I  hae  long  since  learned  submission,  I 
haena  learned  to  forget. ' ' 

"Tell  me  about  your  sorrow,  Elspeth,"  said 
Marion,  rightly  judging  that  her  faithful  servant 
hoped  that  some  comfort  might  be  brought  to  her 
young  mistress  from  hearing  how  another  was 
helped  in  a  similar  distress. 

So  Elspeth  began  her  story,  being  very  ex- 
plicit at  the  outset.  "Weel,"  she  said,  "  ye  ken 
somat  o'  it  already,  hoo  we  twa,  Robin  an'  my- 
sel',  were  brought  up  togither  at  my  uncle's.  We 
were  baith  related  to  them,  but  frae  different 
sides.  Robin  was  nae  relation  to  the  L/undies; 
he  was  nephew  to  uncle's  wife.  Weel,  when  we 
were  sma'  where  ane  went  the  ither  went,  an'  as 
we  grew  aulder  we  still  felt  that  we  maun  be  to- 
gither. But  there  came  a  time  when  we  didna 
rightly  understand  each  ither.  You  see  we  were 
nae  langer  bairns.  I  wad  rin  oot  o'  his  way  an' 
then  weary  for  his  company.  Ance  he  said  to 
me,  '  Elspeth,  ye  are  owre  quiet  o'  late;  ye  dinna 
speak  wi'  me  as  you  were  wont.  Hae  ye  ony  rea- 
sons for  it?  What  hae  I  dune?  tell  me.'  An'  I 
answered,  '  I  hae  nae  reasons,  but  we  arena  langer 


36  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

bairns,  an'  folk  change  wi'  the  years  that  come  to 
them.'  He  made  reply,  'That  is  sae;  but,  Els- 
peth,  dear  lass,  you  maunna  change  an'  turn 
awa'  frae  me.  You  hae  been  a  true  friend  to  me, 
an'  noo  I  am  countin'  on  you  mair  than  iver  be- 
fore. You  are  grawin'  womanly,  an'  I  am  glad 
to  see  it,  but  you  maunna  draw  back  within  your- 
sel'  sae  muckle,  or  I  may  graw  to  think  that  you 
dinna  care  for  me.'  Then  after  a  bit  he  said, 
'  Nae,  I  wunna  believe  that. '  Then  he  kissed 
my  cheek  an'  laughed  because  I  blushed.  '  It  is 
a'  right,  Elspeth,  is  it  na?'  I  answered  him 
never  a  ward,  an'  he  took  my  hand,  say  in',  '  This 
wee  hand  is  mine,  and  I  wunna  mak'  you  blush 
ony  langer.  Honestly,  Elspeth,  it  wull  pit  us 
baith  mair  at  oor  ease  to  hae  this  matter  settled. ' 
I  leuked  up  an'  smiled.  '  That  is  richt,  sweet- 
heart,' he  said.  '  I  kenned  you  wad  be  mine.' 

"  It  was  as  he  had  said.  I  was  mair  at  my  ease 
after  that,  an'  the  days  an'  the  months  an'  the 
years  flew  by  sae  quickly  that  I  couldna  believe 
that  they  were  gane.  Weel,  I  like  not  to  tell  the 
rest  o'  the  story,"  and  a  visible  shudder  passed 
over  Elspeth  as  she  paused  for  a  moment.  "I 
never  saw  him  in  better  spirits  than  on  that  last 
morn.  He  went  to  fell  trees  to  build  a  little  cot 
for  himsel'  and  for  me.  He  leuked  back  at  me — 
eh,  my  leddy,  I  can  see  that  smile  still — an'  he 


SECOND  VISIT.  37 

said,  'I  shall  wark  weel  the  day,  Elspeth;  love 
shall  give  strength  to  my  arms.'  Ah,  me,  this 
warld  has  its  scenes  that  grief  embalms  in  oor 
memories!  You  ken  it  was  the  limb  o'  a  tree 
that  struck  Robin  an'  killed  him.  Dinna  ask  me 
mair.  I  canna  stand  it  even  noo.  That  awfu' 
cut,  that  bleeding  heid  !" 

"  Elspeth,  I  dinna  wonder  that  you  canna  for- 
get it.  The  Lord  maun  hae  helped  you  to  live 
through  sic  an'  affliction." 

"He  did,  he  did,  an'  he  gi'ed  me  a  gude 
freend  i'  my  dear,  sweet  Cousin  Agnes.  Noo 
that  mak's  me  think  it  wad  be  gude  for  yoursel' 
an'  you  had  a  young  lady  o'  quality  to  stop  a  bit 
wi'  you.  I  wush  your  faither  wad  fetch  ane  o' 
your  cousins  or  ane  o'  your  freends;  there  is  nae 
tellin'  hoo  it  might  cheer  you  up  to  hae  com- 
pany. There  is  Lady  Annie,  your  mither's  kins- 
woman; I  dinna  doot  but  she  wad  come  to  stay 
wi'  you." 

"Dinna,  gude  Elspeth;  you  think  better  o' 
that  plan  than  I  do.  Lady  Annie  wad  see  too 
much  change  at  Cragsby  Castle,  an'  it  wad  fret 
me  mair  tfran  it  would  soothe  me  to  hae  her  come. 
Nae,  Elspeth,  I  wull  leuk  awa'  to  the  hills  frae 
whence  cometh  my  help.  When  I  am  helped 
frae  thence  I  shall  be  helped  indeed." 

"You  are  richt  there,  hinny,  as  you  maistly 


38  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

are.  I  micht  hae  kenned  that  you  needed  nae 
advice  frae  me." 

"  But  I  do  need  advice  frae  you.  I  hae  profit- 
ed by  it  mony  times.  But  for  some  things  that 
I  dinna  like  to  mention  your  plan  wad  be  a  gude 
ane.  I  wull  content  mysel'  wi'  the  company  o' 
my  faither  an'  my  ain  thoughts  till  the  bairns 
come;  they  may  afford  me  some  diversion.  Hoo 
auld  are  they,  think  you,  Elspeth?" 

"Ididnaheartell." 

"  Weel,  I  hope  that  they  wull  be  gude,  pleas- 
ant children." 

The  candle  had  burned  low,  and  Elspeth,  in 
spite  of  herself,  had  yawned  several  times  and 
showed  other  signs  of  fatigue. 

"  You  are  weary,  gude  Elspeth,"  said  Marion. 
"  I  wull  gang  noo  an'  leave  you  to  your  rest." 

As  Lady  Marion  went  to  her  room  she  settled 
herself  in  a  large  chair  and  looked  about  her  with 
a  feeling  of  solitude,  the  apartment  seemed  so 
large  and  empty.  "Oh,"  thought  she,  "  if  I  had 
a  sister  to  be  my  companion  through  the  weary 
years  to  come!"  She  shuddered  as  she  thought 
of  Ainslie  under  the  waters,  and  she  resolved  to 
cherish  his  memory  as  .long  as  her  own  life  should 
last.  She  recalled  his  last  words  to  her,  "Tell 
her  I  shall  never  forget  her,  and  I  hope  to  meet 
her  again." 


DALZIEL'S  SECOND  VISIT.  39 

"Not  in  this  world,  Roger  dear,"  she  mur- 
mured, ' '  and  the  other  world  seems  sae  distant, 
sae  shrouded  in  mystery.  Oh,  to  clasp  your 
warm,  friendly,  loving  hand  again!  But  I  may 
not;  my  life  maun  e'en  wear  on  wi'  but  ane  hope, 
the  hope  of  doing  weel  my  duties.  God  gie  me 
grace  na  to  repine  at  his  ain  providence." 


40  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  AINSLIE  BAIRNS. 

IN  due  time  the  "Ainslie  bairns"  arrived. 
Elspeth  had  been  wondering  how  it  would  seem 
to  have  children  in  the  house  once  more,  and 
Lady  Marion  hoped  that  they  would  help  to  dis- 
pell  the  awful  stillness  that  she  felt  in  every  part 
of  the  castle.  Neither  did  Sir  William  feel  whol- 
ly indifferent  towards  them;  and  when  he  saw 
the  tall,  manly-looking  lad  of  sixteen  and  his 
shy,  sweet-faced  sister,  but  two  years  younger, 
he  was  agreeably  disappointed.  Ke  had  thought 
from  Dalziel's  description  that  they  were  small, 
sickly  children  needing  nursing  and  care;  but  he 
saw  at  once  that  they  need  not  have  been  sent 
in  search  of  health.  He  noticed,  too,  that  they 
came  prepared  to  stay  a  long  time.  The  thought 
just  crossed  his  mind  that  there  might  be  some 
trick  about  the  matter,  but  he  banished  the 
thought  at  once;  he  would  not  think  so  meanly 
of  Dahiel.  He  concluded  that  all  was  right,  and 
he  had  no  objection  to  the  children's  making  a 
lengthened  stay  since  he  was  likely  to  be  well 
paid  for  it.  His  mental  comment  was  not  unlike 
this: 


THE  AINSUE   BAIRNS.  41 

"Folk  wull  most  likely  gie  me  credit  for 
keeping  the  bairns  for  naething,  an'  at  the  same 
time  I  wull  be  putting  a  gude  bit  in  my  pocket. 
Weel,  the  old  sayin'  is  true,  '  It  is  an  ill  wun  that 
blaws  naebody  gude.'  If  puir  Ainslie  has  gane 
doon  aneath  the  waters,  it  is  like  to  be  the  means 
o'  helpin'  me." 

While  Sir  William  had  been  occupied  with 
his  thoughts,  Elspeth  had  greeted  the  children 
with  warm,  honest  words  of  welcome.  Lady 
Marion  caught  a  glimpse  of  them  across  the  hall, 
and  she  heard  Elspeth  ask,  "Weel,  my  laddie, 
what  may  your  name  be?" 

' '  Roger  Ainslie, ' '  he  answered. 

Again  Lady  Marion  looked  on  the  boy,  and  the 
resemblance  between  him  and  his  uncle  was  so 
striking  that  she  sat  down  on  her  chair  unable  to 
move.  Here  Elspeth  found  her  some  moments 
later. 

"Come  awa',  my  leddy,  an'  see  doesna  the 
lad  leuk  like — Why,  what  is  the  matter,  hinny? 
Are  you  na  weel?" 

"Ay,  I  am  weel,  but  I  feel  a  bit  faint." 

"I  ken.  I  wish  Elspeth  Lundie  could  help 
you  bear  your  troubles,  puir  lamb.  Then  that 
leuk  wadna  come  sae  often  in  your  face." 

"Elspeth,  hae  you  na  had  your  ain  share  o' 
troubles?" 


42  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

"Please  God,  I  hae;  but  it  amaist  rives  my 
heart  i'  twain  to  see  you  sae  cast  doon."  Chan- 
ging the  subject,  she  said,  "Yon  is  a  sweet,  bon- 
nie  lass  ;  Marjorie,  her  name  is.  That  was  the 
name  o'  an  early  friend  o'  mine.  Weel,  I  maun 
awa'  noo." 

Lady  Marion,  thinking  that  the  children  might 
miss  a  welcome  from  her,  now  came  forward  in 
her  sweet,  winning  way  and  spoke  a  few  words 
of  greeting.  She  loved  both  Roger  and  his  sis- 
ter from  that  moment  and  thanked  Providence 
that  they  had  been  sent  to  Cragsby  Castle.  She 
thought  not  of  the  money  to  be  paid  for  their 
stay;  she  thought  only  that  they  were  kindred  of 
him  she  had  loved,  him  she  must  still  love. 
She  spoke  soft,  gentle  words  to  Marjorie  till  she 
lost  her  shy  look  and  turned  a  pair  of  deep  gray 
eyes  full  on  her  new  friend.  Lady  Marion  held 
out  her  hand  and  said,  "  Come,  wi'  me." 

Marjorie  obeyed,  and  clasping  Marion's  hand, 
said  in  her  sweet  simplicity,  u  I  love  you  weel." 

"  Do  you,  indeed  ?  Weel,  that  is  a  right  pleas- 
ant thing  to  hear." 

As  they  walked  over  the  grounds  the  child 
manifested  her  delight  at  every  new  turn.  "  Sic 
a  rare  burnie  yon  is,  loupin'  doon  the  brae,  an' 
sic  a  bonnie  linn.  Wha  ever  saw  sae  mony  trees? 
My,  but  you  maun  be  happy  here,  sweet  leddy!" 


THE   AINSLIE   BAIRNS.  43 

' '  Wull  you  be  happy  here,  think  you  ?' ' 

' '  I  dinna  ken.  I  hae  aye  been  happy  till  o' 
late,  when  we  hae  had  trouble;  an'  Roger  says 
that  more  maun  follow.  Roger  is  a  wise  lad.  I 
amna  wise;  I  canna  leuk  ahead.  But  then,"  she 
went  on,  lowering  her  voice,  "  I  ken  that  God 
does  that  for  me,  sae  why  need  I  ?' ' 

"Why,  indeed,  dear  bairn?  You  have  al- 
ready learned  a  lesson  o'  trust  that  mony  an  ane 
wi'  gray  hairs  has  failed  to  learn.  Sae  I  maun 
think  that  you  are  wise  after  all." 

All  day  the  words  of  the  child  lingered  in  the 
mind  of  Lady  Marion.  "  Here  is  a  lesson  of  trust 
for  me,"  she  thought.  "After  all,  the  wisest 
folk  are  those  wha  take  God  at  his  ward  an'  rest 
in  it." 

When  they  returned,  Lady  Marion  scanned 
the  face  of  the  lad,  and  with  the  clew  that  Mar- 
jorie  had  given  her  she  read  him  thoroughly. 
He  was  sad  and  thoughtful  beyond  his  years.  He 
appreciated  kindness  and  smiled  his  gratitude; 
but  immediately  the  smile  would  die  away  and 
the  grave,  serious  look  would  come  back  to  his 
countenance.  He  seemed  ill  at  ease  and  from 
some  few  words  that  he  dropped  Marion  guessed 
the  cause:  he  was  afraid  that  it  had  not  been 
right  to  come  to  Cragsby  Castle.  And  this  fear 
became  stronger  as  time  wore  on  and  no  tidings 


44  LADY  MARION'S   ANSWER. 

came  from  Dalziel.  Sir  William  became  sullen 
and  began  to  fear  that  he  had  been  duped.  Mat- 
ters were  in  this  state  when  a  letter  came  from 
Dalziel  stating  that  he  was  about  to  leave  Scot- 
land for  ever.  Sir  William  was  welcome  to  the 
Ainslie  children,  and  he  wished  him  joy  with 
them. 

It  is  hard  to  say  what  might  have  happened 
had  not  Roger  offered  to  take  the  place  of  a 
servant  on  the  farm  and  so  pay  his  indebtedness. 
Marjorie  was  proud  of  his  courage,  and  she  of- 
fered her  services  to  Elspeth. 

Sir  William  had  been  running  in  debt  again, 
but,  depending  on  Dalziel's  liberality,  he  had 
hoped  to  meet  some  of  his  obligations.  Now 
that  hope  being  cut  off,  nothing  remained  for 
him  to  do  but  to  dispose  of  more  real  estate.  At 
this  juncture  Lady  Marion  came  to  the  front  and 
stood  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  her  father.  She 
proposed  the  sale  of  the  carriage  horses,  her  own 
pony  and  saddle,  together  with  many  other  valu- 
able things  within  the  castle.  She  dismissed  all 
the  servants  within  the  house  except  Elspeth, 
and  she  was  hardly  considered  a  servant. 

UI  shall  wark  wi'  my  ain  hands;  what  else 
were  they  made  for?"  she  asked  her  father  when 
he  remonstrated.  But  he  answered,  "Is  it  na 
eneuch  that  auld  Felix  wull  hae  the  best  horses 


THE   AINSLIE   BAIRNS.  45 

an'  mony  a  pleasant  thing  that  we  hae  loved  to 
leuk  on,  withoot  him  knowing  that  we  hae 
scarcely  a  mon  or  a  maid  servant  left  ?  Nae,  I 
wull  sell  the  land,  I  tell  you,  lass." 

"Weel,  sell  the  land  forbye  an'  let  us  be  free 
o'  debt.  I  can  bide  onything  but  giving  up  the 
castle  an'  the  land  that  is  .nearest  it." 

' '  Ye  hae  weel  said,  daughter.  It  shall  be 
dune;  then  we  wull  live  within  oor  income,  an' 
the  Ainslie  bairns  shall  bide  wi'  us  an'  serve  us." 

It  took  but  a  short  time  to  conclude  the  busi- 
ness. Felix  Cameron  obtained  another  coveted 
field  and  whatever  goods  were  disposed  of.  Sir 
William  nerved  himself  to  pass  through  the  or- 
deal, and  when  it  was  over  he  said,  "There,  Mar- 
ion, I  am  glad  it  is  dune.  Another  thing  I  am 
thankfu'  for:  auld  Felix  wunna  drive  past  here 
vera  often,  sae  I  shanna  see  my  beasties  doin' 
his  bidding.  Noo,  Elspeth,  you  shall  hae  the 
interest  on  your  money  an'  part  o'  the  principal. 
I  wush  that  I  could  pay  it  a' ;  but  I  canna  do  sae 
noo  withoot  inconvenience." 

' '  That  you  ken  well  I  wunna  pit  you  to  an'  I 
wad  never  get  the  siller  again.  But,  gin  I  may 
mak'  sae  bold,  is  ivery  ither  obligation  blotted 
oot?  because  if  it  isna,  ye  maunna  pay  me  ony- 
thing." 

"Ay,  Elspeth,  a'  is  paid,  thank  God!" 


46  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

"  Thank  God,  indeed,  maister,  that  ye  hae  sae 
muckle  left.  Of  course  it  mak's  but  little  aboot 
the  like  o'  me  compared  wi'  gran'  folks;  but  God, 
wha  is  nae  respecter  o'  persons,  has  heard  my  pray- 
ers, in  that  Cragsby  Castle  is  oot  o'  the  clutches  o' 
auld  Felix  or  ony  ither  body." 

Sir  William  could  not  repress  a  smile  at  the 
change  that  Blspeth's  feelings  seemed  to  have 
undergone  during  her  last  remark,  and  he  added, 
"  Ay,  the  castle  an'  mony  a  gude  acre  still  belong 
to  us,  an'  luck  wull  hae  to  go  vera  hard  wi'  me 
afore  I  mak'  ony  mair  debt. ' ' 

Marion  drew  a  long  breath,  and  said,  "I  am 
sae  glad  that  what  is  left  is  clear.  I  dinna  like  to 
feel  under  obligation  to  ony  ane. ' ' 

Roger  Ainslie  proved  to  be  good  help,  and  but 
three  men-servants  remained  besides  him.  Old 
Stephen  Watson  was  the  foreman,  and  he  lived 
in  a  cottage  near  the  castle.  Stephen  did  not 
hear  the  above  conversation;  however,  he  had  his 
own  thoughts  in  regard  to  his  master's  affairs. 

On  the  evening  that  the  horses  were  led  away 
old  Stephen  sat  in  his  accustomed  place  in  his 
cottage,  but  he  was  wholly  unlike  himself.  His 
bonnet  was  settled  over  his  eyes  and  not  a  word 
escaped  him  for  the  space  of  two  hours.  Han- 
nah, his  wife,  broke  the  silence  by  saying,  "Gude- 
mon,  ye  needna  be  that  dour  that  ye  canna  speak 


THE   AINSLIE    BAIRNS. 


47 


to  me.  I  had  naething  to  do  wi'  the  sale  o'  the 
beasties. ' ' 

' '  I  ken  that  weel  enough,  neither  do  I  feel 
angry  wi'  you  aboot  ony thing;  but  ye  maun  alloo 
that  it  is  but  natural  that  I  should  grieve  for  the 
beasties.  It  wasna  enough  that  the  span  o'  blacks 
had  to  gang,  but  Rory,  oor  leddy's  pony,  is  sold 
tae,  the  bonniest  beast  i'  a'  the  parts  aboot.  Puir 
thing!  the  last  thing  that  he  did  was  to  nibble  at 
my  han'  for  the  sweet  morsel  he  was  wont  to  find 
there.  Eh !  but  the  clatter  of  their  hoofs  rings 
intil  my  ears  still." 

"  It  is  tae  bad,  tae  bad.  Hoo  came  the  mais- 
ter's  property  to  rin  doon  sae?  I  am  sure  that 
you  hae  always  kept  an  eydent  han'  to  the  wark. 
Folk  counted  Sir  William  lucky  that  he  had  sic  a 
foreman,  for  it  is  weel  kenned  that  you  are  gude 
at  planning." 

' '  It  may  be  as  you  say,  Hannah,  but  it  isna 
muckle  that  a  faithfu'  servant  can  do  when  ance 
his  maister's  affairs  get  sae  badly  entangled,  you 
ken.  The  mischief  was  maistly  dune  afore  my 
time,  an'  afore  Sir  William's  tae,  for  that  maitter. 
His  faither  handled  property  badly,  sae  I  am 
tauld,  an'  he  died  vera  suddent.  He  was  aye 
given  to  muckle  wine,  an'  ance  when  his  wife, 
Lady  Grissel,  interfered,  the  butler  didna  bring 
his  bottle.  Weel,  he  gaed  into  the  wine-cellar 


48  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

•*. 

for  it  himsel',  an'  there  he  saw  a  wraith,  an'  o' 
course  he  died  soon  after. ' ' 

"  Noo,  Stephen,  you  dinna  believe  that  a  mon 
sees  his  ain  ghaist?" 

"  Weel,  maybe  na.  His  heid  was  amaist  likely 
bad  wi'  the  wine  that  he  had  taken  already,  for  it 
was  weel  on  i'  the  evening  and  he  had  taken  fu' 
plenty.  But  whether  he  saw  his  wraith  or  nae, 
his  time  had  come.  He  had  bad  debts,  as  was 
then  found  oot,  an'  mony  shifts  an'  turns  were 
made  to  haud  the  property  thegither.  If  Sir  Wil- 
liam were  never  sae  gude  a  manager,  he  wad  hae 
his  han's  fu',  see  ye?" 

"Well,  neither  has  he  managed  ony  o'-the 
best." 

"  Ye  are  richt  there.  He  isna  sae  vera  gude 
nor  sae  vera  bad  at  managing;  aboot  middling  is 
he.  But  noo  he  is  even  in  the  warld;  leastways, 
I  think  sae.  Ye  ken  I  hae  been  driving  aboot  wi' 
him  o'  late,  an'  I  hear  a  ward  here  an'  anither 
there;  sae,  as  near  as  I  can  mak'  oot,  a'  that  he 
hauds  noo  is  free  frae  debt." 

"Weel,  that  is  gude.  I  amaist  feared  for  the 
castle  itsel'  an'  oor  ain  wee  cot  tae.  Thae  Ains- 
lie  bairns,  wull  they  wark  the  maister  gude  or  ill, 
think  you?" 

"Gude,  wifie,  gude,  I  am  sure.  You  should 
see  hoo  yon  Roger  handles  his  wark.  Ane  wad 


THE  AINSLIE   BAIRNS.  49 

think  that  he  was  broughten  up  to  it.  He  is  a 
handy  lad,  I  can  tell  you,  an'  I  am  tauld  that  the 
lass  stands  side  by  side  wi'  Elspeth." 

uAy,  she  does;  that  I  hae  seen  wi'  my  ain 
e'en.  Weel,  let  us  hoop  that  the  maister  wull 
prosper  noo,  though  his  estate  has  been  cut  awa' 
on  baith  sides. ' ' 

"I  think  he  wull.  A'  we  hae  to  do  is  to  pit 
the  crops  in  weel  an'  to  gather  them  weel,  an' 
there  wull  be  enough  for  necessary  expenses.  I 
think  that  we  an'  a'  the  maister 's  folk  micht 
heave  a  gude  lang  breath  an'  say,  'The  gude 
Lord  be  praised  that  a'  is  as  weel  as  it  is. '  " 

"I  think  sae  tae,  Stephen.  But  puir  L,eddy 
Marion,  accordin'  to  what  I  hae  seen,  she  maun 
hae  lo'ed  him  wha  was  drowned.  I  see  that  she 
is  fond  o'  Marjorie  an'  doesna  like  her  to  wark 
hard." 

"The  lad  Roger  looks  amazin'  like  his  uncle. 
I  wad  ken,  an'  1  hadna  been  tauld,  that  they 
were  near  o'  kin. ' ' 

' '  Thae  bairns  wull  fare  weel,  gin  Leddy  Mar- 
ion has  the  handlin'  o'  the  property.  I  think, 
after  a',  that  that  bad  mon — what  do  you  ca' 
him?" 

"Dalziel?" 

uAy,  Dalziel;  well,  I  think,  after  a',  that 
there  was  a  providence  i'  his  bringin'  the  bairns 

Lady  Marlon's  Answer.  A 


50  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

to  the  castle.  What  for  a  rearin'  wad  he  gi'e 
them,  an'  ane  o'  them  a  lassie,  tae !  Weel,  oor 
Heavenly  Faither  oft  brings  gude  oot  o'  seemin' 
evil." 

"Ay,  that  is  sae,  an'  it  is  hard  to  calculate 
hoo  muckle  dependence  they  may  be  to  the  mais- 
ter.  Roger  may  be  as  a  son  an'  the  staff  o'  his 
declinin'  years.  He  sallna  want  for  instruction 
i'  farmin'  an'  I  can  gi'e  it  to  him;  for  before 
mony  years  my  wark  wull  be  dune.  Besides,  I 
like  the  lad  for  his  ain  sake,  an'  he  is  as  tender- 
hearted as  a  lass.  Ye  should  hae  seen  the  leuk 
upon  his  face  when  Rory  was  dragged  awa'.  I 
maun  say  dragged,  for  it  was  naething  less.  I 
didna  ken  yestere'en,  when  oor  leddy  came  back 
frae  a  ride  upon  Rory's  back,  that  it  wad  be  her 
last  ride  upon  the  gentle  beast;  but  she  maun  hae 
kenned  it,  for  as  I  led  him  awa'  to  the  stable  she 
said,  'Gi'e  Rory  gude  care  the  nicht,  Stephen.' 
Weel,  to  gang  back  to  Roger,  he  stood  there  this 
mornin'  an'  he  said,  'Alas,  gude  Watson,  I  feel 
as  if  I  were  bringin'  ill-luck  to  the  castle;  but  gin 
God  wull  gi'e  me  his  favor,  I  wull  help  mend  oor 
fortunes  for  this  sweet  leddy 's  sake.'  Weel,  Han- 
nah, I  couldna  leave  the  lad  to  think  that,  sae  I 
tauld  him  that  he  hadna  brought  the  ill-luck, 
that  the  property  had  been  rinnin'  back  for  a  lang 


time. 


THE   AINSLIE   BAIRNS.  51 

"  That  was  but  richt.  I  think  that  the  lad  is 
tae  serious-like,  ony way. ' ' 

"He  could  scarcely  be  otherwise;  he  has  passed 
through  troubles  sic  as  few  lads  o'  his  age  hae  ony 
knowledge  o'." 

' '  Weel,  troubles  wull  come  upon  a'  the  human 
family,  it  seems ;  but  it  leuks  sae  hard  when  the 
heids  o'  youth  an'  childhood  maun  be  bowed  doon 
by  it.  But,  Stephen,  we  maun  stan'  back  an'  na 
meddle  wi'  maitters  tae  high  for  us.  Ye  mind 
that  Ane  wha  had  muckle  mair  right  to  question 
said,  *  Even,  sae,  Faither,  for  sae  it  seems  gude  i' 
thy  sight.'  " 


LADY   MARION'S  ANSWER. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   BLACK   LINN. 

ONE  evening  late  in  autumn  the  rain  was  fall- 
ing almost  in  torrents.  Within  the  castle  the  in- 
mates drew  closer  to  the  fire  and  shuddered  as  the 
cold  storm  beat  against  the  windows. 

"  This  is  a  richt  gude  uicht  for  a  ghaist-story, 
Elspeth,"  said  Marjorie. 

"  I  wad  say  that  it  was  a  nicht  to  try  to  think 
Q'  something  pleasant,"  Elspeth  quickly  replied. 
"I  dinna  ken,  Elspeth,"  spoke  up  Sir  Wil- 
liam; "  we  might  as  well  be  in  sympathy  wi'  the 
elements.  Use  as  muckle  imagination  as  you 
can,  you  canna  think  to  smell  the  hawthorne  the 
nicht.  Sae  ye  may  as  weel  gi'e  in  to  Marjorie." 
"Marjorie  maunna  think  that  I  hae  a  ghaist- 
story  at  the  end  o'  my  tongue  the  haill  time. 
An',  moreover,  she  kens  as  weel  as  I  do  that  I 
dinna  believe  ane  ward  o'  them.  I  wad  muckle 
rather  she  wad  gang  to  the  Ward  o'  God  an'  read 
the  mony  true  stories  that  it  has  between  the  lids 
o'  it." 

"Noo,  Elspeth,  hae  nae  mair  words  aboot  it. 
You  ken  you  may  as  well  gi'e  the  lass  a  story  as 


THE   BLACK  LINN.  53 

nae.  Mind,  she  has  no  lassies  o'  her  age  for  com- 
pany an'  na  muckle  to  help  her  pass  awa'  the 
time." 

"Weel,  let  me  think  a  bit.  Hae  you  iver 
heard  the  story  o'  the.  Black  Linn  ?' ' 

All  present  answered  in  the  negative,  and 
Blspeth  began:  "  Lang,  lang  ago,  when  life  was 
held  a  bit  cheaper  than  it  is  noo,  there  lived 
twa  cousins  wha  loved  the  same  lass.  Ane  nicht 
they  met  by  agreement  and  fought  upon  a  high 
precipice  aboon  the  Black  Linn.  Weel,  their 
jealousy  was  that  bitter  that  the  ane  wadna  gi'e 
up  an'  the  ither  wadna  gi'e  up,  till  ane  o'  them 
got  his  daith-blow.  Then  first  their  anger  began 
to  abate.  The  puir  lad  wha  was  sae  badly  hurted 
bethought  him  to  put  up  a  prayer  to  God  for 
his  soul,  an'  the  ane  wha  had  dealt  the  deadly 
blow  calmed  doon  his  rage  an'  hate  an'  cried, 
*  Geordie,  Geordie,  dinna  dee  !' 

"The  dyin'  mon  turned  his  e'e  upon  him 
an'  replied,  '  I  canna  help  but  dee,  Jock;  but  you 
maunna  be  hung,  lad,  for  it  was  I  wha.  gave  the 
challenge. ' 

"Jock  sat  doon  by  Geordie  an'  took  his  bluid- 
stained  han'  i'  his  ain,  an'  said,  'Geordie,  we 
hae  been  freends  iver  since  we  were  bit  laddies; 
hoo  could  we  turn  foes  an'  be  guilty  o'  sic  wick- 
edness ?' 


54  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

"'Hoo,  indeed?'  answered  Geordie,  an'  he 
never  spake  mair. 

"Jock  fell  upon  his  face,  that  he  michtna  see 
his  cousin  dee,  an'  he  wept  sairly  for  a  lang  time, 
an'  when  he  leuked  up  Geordie  was  dead.  What 
was  now  to  be  dune?  Beneath  was  the  Black 
Linn,  an'  it  took  Jock  but  a  minute  to  push 
Geordie' s  puir  limp,  lifeless  body  in  it.  Jock 
looked  doon,  but  when  he  saw  the  white  face 
upon  the  black  water  he  turned  an'  fled  wi' 
speed.  He  said  to  himsel',  'I  hope  he  wull  be 
found,  an'  then  folk  wull  think  that  he  fell  into 
the  linn;  for  naebody  kenned  that  we  gaed  awa' 
thegither.  But  God  kens  it,  an'  he  may  bring  it 
to  licht,'  he  added,  an'  slackened  his  steps,  sae 
he  wadna  be  seen  rinnin'  frae  the  Black  Linn. 

"Weel,  dear  knows  the  hardest  o'  it  maun 
yet  be  tauld.  Auld  Betty  Bruce,  the  widowed 
mither  o'  the  dead  lad,  waited  lang  an'  late  that 
nicht  for  Geordie' s  return.  The  white  deal  table 
stood  upon  the  floor  wi'  Geordie's  supper  spread, 
an'  she  wondered  muckle  that  he  stayed  sae  late. 
At  last  she  said,  '  He  maun  hae  gone  to  see  his 
sweetheart.  Weel,  that  is  the  way  it  gaes;  lads 
an'  lasses  hae  aye  wedded,  an'  they  aye  wull, 
sae  lang  as  the  warld  stands.  I  wull  hae  to 
alloo  that  anither  has  a  better  claim  upon  him 
than  I  hae  myselV  Soon  she  laid  hersel'  doou 


THE   BLACK   LINN.  55 

to  sleep,  an'  when  she  awoke  at  daybreak  she 
rose  up  quickly  an'  called  her  son,  thinkin'  that 
he  had  come  in  an'  gone  to  his  bed.  But  what 
was  her  surprise  when  she  found  that  he  hadna 
come  hame  at  a'.  Weel,  the  hours  passed  awa', 
an'  of  coorse  nae  Geordie  came.  Then  auld 
Betty  sought  oot  his  cousin  Jock  an'  asked  him 
if  he  kenned  onything  o'  Geordie.  An'  Jock 
axed  his  aunt  Betty  many  questions,  but  he  didna 
answer  hers. 

"  '  I  thocht  for  sure  that  you  wad  ken  some- 
thing o'  him,  Jock  !'  she  said,  an'  she  fell  a-greet- 
in'  an'  a-lamentin'  an'  besought  Jock  to  gang  an' 
leuk  for  his  cousin;  for  she  wist  not,  puir  auld 
dame,  that  there  had  been  ony  rivalry  atween  the 
twa.  Jock  consented  to  gang,  and  his  mither 
bade  her  sister  hope  for  the  best  an'  dootless  a' 
wad  be  weel.  '  Mayhap  he  wull  be  hame  when 
you  gang  there,'  she  said. 

"Weel,  thrice  ilka  day  did  the  troubled  wo- 
man seek  Jock  an'  ask  if  he  hadna  found  her  Geor- 
die. Nearly  a  week  later  a  shepherd  caught 
sight  o'  the  figure  o'  a  mon  lyin'  on  the  border  o' 
the  Black  Linn.  He  gaed  to  it,  an'  there  he 
found  Geordie  Bruce,  his  claes  caught  upon  a 
limb  o'  a  tree  that  lay  prone  on  the  linn-side. 
Then  what  sorrow  filled  the  heart  o'  Betty  Bruce 
nane  can  tell  except  those  wha  hae  had  a  like  tribu- 


56  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

lation.  '  Hoo  could  he  gang  sae  near  the  dreadfu' 
linn,  an'  he  the  only  son  o'  his  mither !'  she 
cried.  '  Oh,  that  He  wha  had  compassion  on  the 
widow  o'  Nain  were  here!'  Weel,  she  gaed  on 
sae  that  Jock  couldna  stan'  it,  an'  Katy,  that 
was  the  lass  they  both  loved,  grat  heavily  at  the 
funeral  o'  Geordie.  Jock's  heart  was  as  heavy 
as  stane,  and  he  arnaist  wished  himsel'  i'  Geor- 
die's  place. 

"After  that  sad  day  was  over  Jock  tauld  his 
faither  an'  his  mither  that  he  was  goin'  to  bide 
wi'  his  aunt  Betty  an'  be  a  son  to  her,  an'  nae- 
thing  could  dissuade  him.  He  took  Geordie' s 
place  an'  he  slept  in  his  bed,  an'  the  story  gaes 
that  ane  nicht  Geordie  came  to  him  an'  tauld 
him  that  he  maun  come  to  the  Black  Linn  each 
year  on  the  anniversary  o'  the  day  that  they 
fought  there.  If  he  didna  come,  he  wadna  leave 
him  i'  peace.  Sae  Jock  gaed  to  that  awful  tryst 
at  the  appointed  time,  nae  matter  hoo  foul  the 
weather  was  an'  hoo  weary  he  felt.  He  gaed  oot 
by  stealth  i'  the  dead  o'  the  night,  an'  folk  said 
he  aye  met  wi'  Geordie. 

"Weel,  he  was  aye  a  sorrowfu'  mon.  He 
never  spake  wi'  Katy  mair  than  to  gie  her  the 
time  o'  day,  at  which  she  marvelled,  for  she  loved 
Jock  as  weel  as  Geordie.  Had  the  puir  lass 
kenned  which  lad  she  loved  best,  there  wad  hae 


THE   BLACK  LINN.  57 

been  nae  question  between  them.  But  Jock  did- 
na  seein  to  care  for  her  or  ony  ither  lass.  He 
lived  wi'  his  aunt  Betty  Bruce  till  she  died,  an' 
then  he  lived  alane,  an'  the  neebors  wad  shake 
their  heids  an'  say  hoo  he  missed  his  cousin  an' 
hoo  he  had  niver  been  the  same  since  Geordie 
was  drowned. 

' '  Weel,  twenty  years  after  Jock  was  vera  sick, 
sick  on  the  nicht  that  he  maun  gang  to  the  Black 
Linn.  There  was  a  friend  sitting  by  him,  an'  Jock 
axed  what  day  o'  the  month  it  was,  an'  when  he 
was  tauld  he  leuked  terribly  worrited.  He  oft 
strived  to  rise  to  his  feet,  but  he  couldna,  an'  when 
at  last  he  fell  asleep  it  was  frae  sheer  weariness. 
He  hadna  slept  lang  when  he  started  up,  saying, 
'  Gang  awa',  Geordie,  for  peety  sake,  gang  !  Did 
you  na  ken  I  couldna  win  to  the  Black  Linn  ?  It 
isna  fair  o'  you,  Geordie ;  hae  I  na  met  wi'  you 
ilka  time  till  noo  when  I  canna  ?  Hae  peety  on 
a  puir  bedridden  mon.  Did  you  na  say  that  I 
maunna  be  hanged  ?  Did  you  na  say  that  it  was 
mair  your  faut  than  mine?  Gang  oot  wi'  that 
pale  face;  it  is  paler  noo  than  when  I  pushed  you 
i'  the  linn.  If  you  wunna  gang,  I  maun  close  my 
e'en.  Eh!  but  I  canna  shut  you  oot  What  mair 
can  I  do  ?  Did  I  na  live  wi'  your  mither  ?  Did  I 
na  gi'e  up  Katy  an'  live  a  lanely  mon?  Oh,  my 
God !  my  sin  wunna  let  me  rest,  an'  it  seems  that 


58  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

I  canna  atone  for  it.     Is  there  nae  forgi'eness  wi' 

thee?' 

"That  vera  nicht  he  died,  an'  the  friend  that 
was  wi'  him,  when  he  saw  that  it  was  daith, 
called  in  anither  mon,  an'  the  twa  talked  it  over 
while  puir  Jock  lay  a-dyin'.  '  Murder  wull  oot,' 
said  the  ane  wha  had  heard  Jock  rave,  an'  he 
tauld  the  ithei  a'  that  he  had  heard.  .  They  didna 
dream  that  the  sick  mon  paid  ony  attention  to 
ony thing  i'  this  warld ;  but  he  opened  his  e'en 
an'  wi'  fast  failin'  breath  confessed  his  sin,  an' 
said,  ( I  am  glad  that  it  is  tauld;  I  wull  die  easier 
noo.' 

"Naebody  felt  to  be  hard  upon  Jock's  mem- 
ory, for  they  said,  '  The  poor  wight  has  suffered 
enough  even  in  this  warld. ' 

"  Noo  I  hae  tauld  my  story,  wha  is  the  better 
for  it?"  concluded  Elspeth. 

"Naebody  wull  be  the  waur  for  it;  for  wha 
minds  the  story  wull  also  mind  that  punishment 
aye  follows  sin.  An'  if  some  ignorant  folk  be- 
lieve in  ghaists,  it  may  keep  them  frae  doin'  a 
foul  deed  some  time,"  said  Sir  William. 

"That  maybe  sae,"  assented  Elspeth,  "but  I 
like  not  to  hae  ony  ane  believe  that  after  the  soul 
has  gaen  into  the  ither  warld  an'  received  its  sen- 
tence frae  Him  wha  has  a'  power,  it  can  win  its 
way  back  to  trouble  ony  ane.  It  wasna  Geor- 


THE    BLACK   LINN. 


59 


die's  ghaist  at  a',  but  puir  Jock's  tormentin'  con- 
science. ' ' 

"Well,  onyway  it  was  a  richt  good  story,  an' 
thank  you,  Elspeth,"  said  Marjorie. 

' '  Noo,  then,  lass,  if  you  like  you  may  listen 
to  a  bit  story  that  I  wull  relate  o'  my  aiu  free 
wull ;  for  I  love  it,  as  it  shows  the  transforming 
power  o'  the  grace  o'  God. 

"Ane  o'  my  earliest  recollections  is  o'  auld 
blin'  Alan  Dunmore.  He  lived  but  a  mile  an'  a 
half  frae  my  hame,  an'  puir  as  we  were,  mither  oft 
sent  him  a  wee  gift,  for  he  was  supported  by  char- 
ity alane.  It  was  when  I  was  sent  on  sic  errands 
that  I  heard  the  wards  that  even  noo  come  to  me 
wi'  sic  power  when  I  feel  cast  doon. 

"But  blin'  Alan  wasna  always  a  gude  mon; 
far  frae  it.  Ance  he  was  a  bad,  thievin',  drinkin', 
swearin',  leein'  mon.  He  wad  mak'  oath  to  a  lee 
as  lief  as  na.  Weel,  aiie  day  he  had  tauld  a  muckle 
lee,  an'  it  had  been  cast  i'  his  teeth  that  it  was  a 
lee.  He  answered  wi'  these  dreadfu'  wards :  '  It 
is  as  true  as  the  gospel;  and  if  it  isna,  I  hope  that 
the  Lord  wull  strike  me  blin'.'  His  blin' ness 
came  upon  him  sae  soon  after  that  folk  thought  his 
wicked  prayer  had  been  answered.  Aweel,  if  the 
Hcht  was  shut  oot  o'  his  natural  e'en,  anither  licht 
filled  his  spiritual  e'en.  Nae  sooner  did  he  ken 
that  God's  han'  was  upon  him  than  he  gi'ed  up, 


6o  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

% 

an',  like  Saul  o'  Tarsus,  cried  oot  axin'  what  he 
maun  do.  An  auld  faithfu'  servant  o'  God  point- 
ed oot  the  way  for  him  to  become  reconciled  to 
Him  against  whom  he  had  sinned  sae  grievously. 
The  puir  auld  mon,  shut  in  by  darkness,  groped 
after  the  '  straight  an'  narrow  way  that  leadeth  to 
iverlasting  life.' 

"When  I  think  o'  that  auld  mon  and  his  fee- 
ble wife,  an'  when  I  think  o'  their  faith  an'  cheer- 
fu'ness  an'  submission,  I  feel  to  hide  my  heid  wi' 
shame.  Naething  seemed  to  worry  them.  They 
just  cast  their  care  upon  Him  wha  had  promised 
to  care  for  them.  Ane  time  they  were  twa  haill 
days  withoot  food  except  a  handfu'  o'  meal  that 
the  auld  dame  made  into  thin  parritch.  When 
the  last  drop  o'  that  was  gane  they  betook  them- 
sel's  to  prayer,  an'  though  faint  in  body  they  were 
strong  in  spirit.  It  was  simmer-time  and  the  dure 
stood  open  a  bit.  A  neebor  was  passin',  an'  he 
thought  to  step  in  a  minute  an'  see  auld  Alan,  but 
when  he  came  to  the  dure,  there  was  auld  Alan 
doon  on  his  knees,  his  bald  pow  bowed  in  prayer. 
The  neebor  pu'ed  off  his  ain  bonnet  an'  stood  an' 
listened,  an'  this  was  what  he  heard  : 

"'Dear  Lord,  forbid  that  we  should  set  oor 
heart  too  muckle  upon  creature  comfort  or  mur- 
mur that  we  haena  the  "meat  that  perisheth," 
sin'  we  hae  the  heavenly  manna  an'  the  water 


THE  BLACK  LINN.  61 

which  is  a  u  well  o'  water  springin'  up  into  iver- 
lastin'  life."  Nathless,  let  it  please  thee  to 
send  a  morsel  to  strengthen  oor  frail  bodies. 
"Gi'e  us  this  day  oor  daily  bread."  This  maun 
be  in  accordance  wi'  thy  wull,  sin'  thy  dear  Son 
our  Saviour  bid  us  pray  after  this  manner.  Grant 
this  oor  request,  that  we  maunna  distrust  thee  for. 
ane  wee  minute.  Hear  oor  prayer  alane  for  Jesus' 
sake.  Amen. ' 

"The  neebor-mon  stepped  softly  awa',  gaed 
hame,  an'  came  back  wi'  a  pock  on  his  back  an' 
a  basket  on  his  airm.  He  set  them  doon  before 
the  dure  an'  gaed  awa'  ahint  the  house  to  watch 
their  surprise. 

"The  day  was  amaist  spent  when  the  dame 
started  to  gang  to  the  bit  spring.  '  Thank  God, 
we  hae  the  water,'  she  said,  and  Alan  chimed  in, 
*  Ay,  an'  oor  bread  sail  be  sure. '  Weel,  as  he  said 
this  the  auld  dame  stood  at  the  dure  an'  she  cried 
oot  wi'  joy,  '  Ay,  Alan,  here  is  a  muckle  pock 
amaist  fu'  an'  a  basket  forbye.  Isna  oor  God  a 
prayer-hearin'  an'  a  prayer-answerin'  God!' 

"'Ay,  ay;  praised  be  his  name!'  answered 
auld  Alan." 


62  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ROGER  AINSLIE. 

ROGER  AINSLIE  had  been  at  the  castle  two 
years,  but  he  was  still  considered  a  "strange  lad." 
He  was  silent  without  being  sullen,  unobtrusive 
without  being  diffident,  faithful  without  expect- 
ing praise,  and  friendly  without  asking  for  friend- 
ship. He  expected  nothing,  unless  it  were  a  tacit 
acknowledgment  that  his  labor  was  well  per- 
formed. He  possessed  more  than  the  usual  amount 
of  self-reliance,  and  although  known  to  be  sad,  he 
never  troubled  any  one  with  complaints.  He 
loved  his  sister  fondly,  and  on  her  he  bestowed 
many  marks  of  affection,  but  he  seldom  talked 
much  with  her.  She  would  often  watch  for  him 
and  run  to  meet  him  and  tell  him  something  fresh 
and  warm  from  her  sunny  heart,  for  which  she 
would  receive  one  of  his  swift  half  smiles  and  a 
presure  of  the  hand. 

Old  Stephen  Watson  thought  that  Roger  must 
be  a  strange  lad  since  he  had  made  a  friend  of  an 
old  dog  named  Snap.  The  dog  had  justly  re- 
ceived this  name,  for  he  was  accustomed  to  snarl 
and  bite  after  every  one,  and  he  was  only  suffered 


ROGER  AINSUE.  63 

to  remain  upon  the  premises  because  he  was  a 
good  watch-dog.  That  Snap  should  become  at- 
tached to  any  one  was  such  a  marvel  to  Stephen 
Watson  that  he  often  remarked,  "Weel,  it  does 
beat  a'  that  I  iver  did  see.  I  never  kenned  that 
brute,  frae  a  puppy,  to  mak'  friends  wi'  ony  liviu' 
mortal.  He  isna  only  quiet  when  Roger  is  by 
him,  but  he  is  as  gentle  an'  as  couthie  as  ane 
could  wish." 

Sir  William  also  noticed  the  strange  attach- 
ment, nor  was  he  slower  than  his  dog  to  recog- 
nize real  worth ;  the  manly  reserve  and  the  fidel- 
ity of  the  youth  soon  won  for  him  the  admiration 
of  his  master. 

One  evening  Sir  William  lingered  outside  the 
door  watching  Roger  as  he  sat  reading  in  the  les- 
sening twilight  until  he  strained  even  his  young 
eyes,  while  Snap  lay  quietly  beside  him,  often 
receiving  a  pat  on  his  grizzled  head.  Sir  Wil- 
liam approached  nearer,  and  said,  "Come,  laddie, 
put  up  your  buik;  it 's  owre  late  for  ony  eyes  save 
a  wizard's  to  mak'  oot  ane  ward  frae  anither  i' 
this  light."  Then,  smiling,  he  added,  "  I  dinna 
ken  but  you  hae  some  magic  aboot  you,  sin'  Snap 
follows  you  around  sae." 

Roger  smiled,  rose,  and  closed  his  book  and 
offered  his  master  the  seat. 

"  Keep  your  seat,  laddie  ;  I  wull  find  anither. 


64  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

I  dinna  ken  muckle  aboot  wark,  but  I  think  ane 
maun  be  limb-weary  if  na  foot-sair  after  he  has 
followed  the  plough  a'  day.  What  buik  hae 
you?" 

"Shakespeare." 

"Shakespeare,  lad?  Weel,  a  lad  that  wull 
moil  faithfully  an'  wullingly  frae  sunrise  till  sun- 
set, an'  then  read  Shakespeare  i'  the  gloaming, 
wull  likely  ane  day  do  greater  things  than  the 
taming  o'  snarling  curs." 

There  was  silence  for  a  little  time,  and  then 
Sir  William  spoke  again:  "You  are  a  strange 
lad,  an'  I  like  you  the  better  because  you  arena 
like  maist  ither  young  men.  There  is  mair  diver- 
sity in  folk  than  I  used  to  think  for,  an'  I  am 
thinking  whether  it  isna  mair  caused  by  the  pres- 
sure o'  circumstance  than  frae  ony  bent  o'  their 
ain.  Hae  you  a  thought  upon  the  subject?" 

"  I  hae  thought  muckle  aboot  that  vera  thing, 
an'  I  canna  settle  it  i'  my  mind  whether  men 
mak'  circumstances  or  circumstances  mak'  men. 
But  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  circumstances 
mak'  men  what  they  are,  sin'  I  seem  to  be  hedged 
in  by  them. ' ' 

"Then  if  you  could  mak'  arrangements  to 
suit  yourseP  you  wad,  I  suppose,  mark  oot  a  dif- 
ferent course?" 

' '  I  think  I  should  ;  and  yet,  if  a'  is  arranged 


ROGER  AINSUE.  65 

by  a  wise  Providence,  I  wadna  like  to  choose  my 
ain  course. ' ' 

"  Weel,  if  a'  is  ordered,  you  cauna  choose  for 
yoursel'.  I  begin  to  think  that  it  was  a  wise  or- 
dering that  sent  you  here,  though  a  liar  maun 
seem  to  be  the  agent  o'  it ' ' 

Roger  quickly  replied,  "Are  you  then  glad 
that  we  came  here?" 

' '  Ay,  I  feel  glad  noo,  an'  I  dinna  believe  that 
I  shall  soon  change  my  mind.  I  ainaist  wish  that 
you  were  my  ain  son. ' ' 

Roger,  the  undemonstrative  Roger,  came  near, 
seated  himself  at  the  old  man's  feet,  looked  up  in 
his  face,  and  said,  "I  give  you  muckle  thanks  for 
what  you  hae  tauld  me.  I  shall  carry  a  lighter 
heart  to  my  daily  toil." 

Sir  William  laid  an  unsteady  hand  on  Roger's 
uncovered  head,  saying  huskily,  ' '  We  are  nae  mair 
maister  an'  servant;  we  are  friends.  Roger,  lad, 
it  has  aye  been  my  great  grief  that  I  haena  a  son. 
Bide  wi'  me,  laddie;  gang  in  an'  oot  afore  me,  an' 
you  shall  be  to  me  as  a  son.  Toil  ye  maun,  for 
siller  is  at  low  ebb  wi'  us,  but  dinna  overdo  your 
strength.  Wark  isna  a  curse,  but  idleness  is.  I 
wish,  as  I  leuk  over  my  fields,  that  I  had  left  on 
them  the  sweat  o'  toil." 

Roger  took  Sir  William's  hand  and  pressed  it 
gently;  it  was  a  silent  promise,  and  Sir  William 

Lady  Marion's  Answer.  C 


66  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

•x 

accepted  it  as  such.  Both  were  much  moved,  and 
little  more  was  said  till  Roger  spoke  :  "  It  is  grow- 
in'  late  and  the  air  is  damp;  hadna  you  better 
gang  within,  sir?" 

Sir  William  arose  and  moved  towards  the  cas- 
tle, but  Roger  did  not  follow.  He  remained  un- 
der the  star-bestudded  heavens,  thanking  Him 
who  rules  them  for  his  new-found  joys  and  un- 
looked-for blessings.  For  a  while  he  sat  absorbed 
in  his  thoughts,  till  a  gentle  hand  was  laid  on  his 
shoulder  and  Marjorie  stood  at  his  side. 

"Weel,  Roger,  I  didna  ken  but  you  had  rin 
awa'  an'  left  me  my  lane,"  she  began. 

"Noo,  Marjorie,  you  ken  weel  enough  that  I 
wadna  do  sic  a  thing." 

u  Ay,  I  ken  it.  I  was  but  fooling.  But  why 
are  you  sae  lang  by  yoursel'  ?" 

"Maister  was  wi'  me  till  a  bit  sin'." 

"Maister  has  been  in  his  bed  this  hour  past. 
Noo,  tell  me  what  troubles  you  sae  that  you  are 
oot  alane  like  an  evil  spirit.  You  maunna  seem 
sae  uncanny." 

"  Weel,  stop  a  bit  for  breath,  and  I  wull  tell 
you  something  that  wull  please  you  weel.  The 
maister  sat  wi'  me  an'  tauld  me  some  vera  pleasant 
things.  He  told  me  he  is  vera  glad  that  we  are 
here,  an'  that  I  maun  bide  wi'  him  an'  be  as  a 
son  to  him." 


ROGER  AINSLIE.  67 

"  You  dinna  tell  me  sae!  Weel,  if  I  amna  a 
proud  an'  happy  lass  you  canna  find  ane." 

"An'  I  am  happy  tae,  but  I  dinna  ken  that  I 
am  proud ;  I  am  thankfu',  though,  an'  I  ken  my 
ain  heart." 

"Ay,  thankfu';  that  is  the  richt  feeling  to 
hae." 

Roger  took  up  his  book,  and  the  two  walked 
into  the  castle  feeling  that  they  had  a  right 
there. 

Within  the  castle  the  mode  of  living  had  un- 
dergone a  change.  Sir  William  was  striving  to 
live  within  his  income,  and  he  no  longer  at- 
tempted to  keep  up  the  old  magnificence.  Most 
of  the  larger  apartments  were  shut  up,  that  the 
family  might  not  miss  the  familiar  furniture,  and 
a  pleasant  room  with  windows  facing  the  south 
was  chosen  as  the  general  sitting-room.  Roger 
and  Marjorie  were  never  excluded,  and  even  Bls- 
peth  found  her  way  here  during  the  long  winter 
evenings,  nor  was  the  circle  complete  without 
her.  Her  stones  were  always  in  good  demand, 
and  when  the  younger  members  of  the  family 
were  weary  of  their  books  they  would  frequently 
lay  them  aside  and  ask  for  a  story. 

One  evening  in  midwinter  all  was  desolate 
without  the  castle  and  the  snow  and  sleet  beat 
heavily  against  the  windows;  the  wind  howled 


68  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

in  the  bare  old  trees  and  whistled  around  many 
an  angle  in  the  ancient  building,  moaned  in  the 
chimney,  and  shook  the  very  doors.  No  one 
seemed  disposed  to  talk,  till  Sir  William  spoke, 
saying,  UI  like  not  the  nicht.  True,  we  hae 
licht  an'  warmth  within,  but  withoot  it  is  fear- 
some. The  wind  has  an  uncanny  sound.  Els- 
peth,  hae  you  nae  a  story  to  help  while  awa'  a 
dreary  evening?" 

The  old  servant,  pleased  at  such  a  request  from 
the  "maister  himsel',"  smiled  and  replied,  "  You 
maun  let  me  think  a  bit,  maister." 

She  had  been  knitting,  but  she  dropped  her 
work  in  her  lap  and  leaning  forward  placed  her 
hand  over  her  eyes,  lest  anything  she  should  see 
should  distract  her  thoughts.  After  a  few  mo- 
ments she  sat  erect,  took  up  her  knitting  again, 
and  began: 

"  Ane  nicht  like  this,  when  I  was  but  a  young 
lass  living  mony  a  mile  awa',  I  sat  wi'  my  mither 
by  her  puir  auld  hearth.  Thank  God,  there  was 
a  gude  fire  on  it,  yet  we  shivered  a  bit,  for  the 
wind  raved  that  hard  that  it  sent  the  shivers  owre 
us.  Beside,  we  had  taken  but  a  light  supper,  for 
the  meal  pock  was  far  frae  fu'.  I  felt  like  sleep- 
in',  I  mind;  but  I  think  that  mither  liked  to  keep 
me  awake.  She  was  lanely  an'  sad  as  weel,  for 
faither  had  been  but  a  month  dead.  Weel,  as 


ROGER  AINSLIE.  69 

she  was  sayin',  '  Keep  awake  for  mither,  hinny, 
that  is  a  dear  glide  lass,'  there  came  a  gentle  tap 
at  the  dure.  Mither  turned  pale  and  didna  at 
ance  rise  to  see  wha  rapped.  An'  I  said,  '  Mith- 
er, some  ane  is  at  the  dure.  Why  dinna  you  rise 
an'  gang  to  it?' 

"  'Whist,  bairn,'  she  said.  'Wha  kens  but  it 
is  some  ane  wha  wad  wark  us  ill?' 

' '  Then  fear  came  to  me  tae,  an'  we  sat  still 
for  a  bit,  till  the  gentlest,  maist  winsome  voice 
that  I  iver  heard  sounded  just  aboon  the  storm, 
'  Hae  you  nae  a  bit  warmth  to  gie  a  puir,  weary 
woman?' 

"Mither  wailed  oot,  'Eh,  it  is  ane  o'  my 
ain  sex  oot  i'  sic  a  storm!  God  forbid  that  I 
should  deny  her  the  best  the  cot  affords.' 

"  She  rose  quickly  and  unbarred  the  dure,  an' 
sic  a  sight  as  stood  upon  the  threshold  i'  the  deep 
snaw !  Ane  glance  was  a'  ane  needed  to  ken 
that  oor  visitor  was  a  beautiful  leddy,  an'  close  to 
her  breast  she  held  a  wee  bairn.  The  woman 
had  lang,  dark  ringlets,  but  the  snaw  had  sifted 
into  them  till  they  were  amaist  white,  an'  mither 
aye  said  that  the  tears  were  frozen  fast  to  her  eye- 
lids. Her  mantle  was  rich  an'  heavy  an'  her 
gown  was  beautiful.  This  I  saw  before  she  had 
taken  her  seat  on  the  settle  by  the  fireside.  Weel, 
mither  stood  amaist  speechless  wi'  amazement, 


70  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

an'  the  tears  glistened  i'  her  e'en.  But  she  soon 
stirred  the  fire  an'  made  hot  brose;  it  didna  mat- 
ter then  that  the  meal  was  low.  The  puir  leddy 
couldna  eat  ony thing;  she  was  clean  beat  oot. 
As  soon  as  she  was  warm  enough,  mither  put  her 
i'  her  ain  bed  an'  then  put  the  wee  bairn  by 
her.  I  mind  that  mither  leuked  sae  sad  as  she 
held  the  bairn;  it  wasna  a  look  o'  reproach,  but 
it  was  a  look  a  bit  distrustfu'. 

"Then  spake  the  leddy  an'  said,  'The  bairn 
isna  a  child  o'  shame,  gude  woman.  When  I 
feel  stronger  I  wull  tell  you  mair.  I  canna  noo.' 
An'  the  lids  closed  sae  wearily  on  the  bonnie  blue 
e'en,  never  mair  to  open  till  the  trump  o'  God 
shall  wake  the  dead.  The  bairn,  tae,  had  taken 
its  daith  cauld,  an'  the  wee  thing  died  i'  twa 
days.  Weel,  it  a'  was  a  mystery.  The  neebors 
were  called  in  an'  naething  could  be  dune  but  to 
gi'e  the  dead  burial.  This  they  were  preparing 
to  do,  an'  the  matter  was  noised  abroad,  for  it 
was  sae  strange,  you  ken.  Folk  came  frae  the 
toon  to  see  the  dead  bodies,  an'  ane  man  came 
wha  cried  oot,  '  It  is  Leddy  Isabella  Walker,  as 
sure  as  I  am  a  sinner !'  An'  this  last  was  true, 
for  he  spake  mony  a  wicked  ward  richt  there  i' 
the  presence  o'  the  dead.  Weel,  frae  that  the 
haill  story  came  oot.  The  puir  leddy  had  a 
warthless,  brutish  husband,  an'  he  was  that  bad 


ROGER  AINSLIE.  71 

to  his  wife  that  she  stood  i'  mortal  fear  o'  him. 
Sae  she  left  hame  withoot  his  kenning  it,  an' 
bargained  wi'  the  carrier  to  bring  her  on  her  way 
to  the  toon,  sae  to  gang  hame  by  the  stage-coach 
to  her  faither.  But  it  came  to  pass  that  the  car- 
rier's faithfu'  beast  gave  oot  aboot  three  miles 
frae  oor  cot,  an'  the  leddy  could  do  naething  but 
struggle  on  through  the  snaw  till  she  came  to 
some  dwelling,  an'  they  are  fu'  far  apart  upon 
that  road  till  this  day.  Weel,  grief,  fear,  weari- 
ness, an'  cauld  had  dune  their  wark  by  the  time 
she  reached  oor  cot,  an'  the  sweet  leddy  had  to 
yield  to  them. 

"Weel,  ward  was  brought  to  her  auld  faither 
an'  he  came  to  oor  hoose,  an'  sic  grief  as  he  made 
may  it  niver  again  be  my  lot  to  behold.  I  mind 
that  he  said,  '  I  feared  that  the  lass  wadna  be 
happy.  Curse  the  siller  that  led  me  to  fa'  in  wi' 
the  plan  o'  the  merrige. '  " 

Lady  Marion  said,  ' '  You  hae  given  us  a  sad 
story  the  nicht,  Elspeth,  ane  that  I  hae  never 
heard  afore. ' ' 

"  Nae,  I  haena  tauld  it  to  you  afore,  but  I  had 
a  mind  to  tell  it  ance." 

Marjorie  was  disappointed,  and  she  said,  "I 
wanted  a  ghaist  story,  Elspeth." 

"Weel,  I  wull  try  to  think  of  ane,  but  you 
ken  that  I  dinna  believe  i'  them." 


72  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

Sir  William  was  silent,  but  when  Marion  came 
to  bid  him  good  night,  he  said,  u  My  dear  daugh- 
ter, I  never  was  sae  glad  i'  a'  my  life  as  I  am 
the  nicht  that  you  gave  the  answer  that  you  did 
concerning  your  proposed  merrige.  Wha  kens 
but  you  micht  even  noo  hae  been  like  Lady  Isa- 
bel, and  I  like  her  grief-stricken  faither!" 


THE   HEADLESS   GHOST.  73 

CHAPTER  VII. 

THE   HEADLESS  GHOST. 

THE  ghost  story  was  not  long  in  coming,  for 
the  morning  found  the  inmates  of  the  castle 
hemmed  in  by  snowdrifts,  and  they  had  to  devise 
many  pastimes  to  divert  their  attention  from  the 
gloom  without.  As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  was 
a  broad  expanse  of  purest  white,  but  the  snow 
was  far  from  being  of  the  same  depth.  In  some 
places  the  stubble  was  barely  covered;  in  others  it 
was  piled  high  like  miniature  mountains.  The 
weather  was  intensely  cold,  and  nothing  remained 
to  be  done  but  to  pile  high  the  fuel  on  the  fire 
and  appreciate  the  genial  warmth  and  glow.  Sir 
William  grew  weary  of  the  outer  view  long  be- 
fore nightfall,  and  he  was  glad  when  the  lights 
were  brought  in,  the  curtains  lowered,  and  the  fam- 
ily again  gathered  in  the  pleasant  sitting-room. 
The  evening  was  nearly  half  spent  before  Elspeth 
came  in.  With  the  carefulness  of  a  good  house- 
wife she  had  attended  to  everything  that  could 
be  damaged  by  the  frost.  Just  as  she  entered 
Marjorie  was  saying,  "I'm  thinkin'  that  we 
wull  get  nae  ghaist  story  the  nicht." 


74  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

"I  am  thinkin'  sae  tae,  if  I  am  to  tell  it," 
said  Elspeth. 

"Noo,  Elspeth,  gude  Elspeth!"  pleaded  Mar- 
jorie  as  she  took  a  stool  and  sat  down  by  her. 

"What  for  are  you  sae  set  for  ghaist  stories? 
I  'se  warrant  that  you  hae  seen  as  mony  ghaists 
as  ony  ither  body." 

"  I  hae  never  seen  ane  i'  my  life." 

"I  believe  you;  nae  mair  has  ony  livin'  mor- 
tal." 

"  Weel,  I  am  disappointed,  for  I  was  sure  that 
you  wad  gi'e  us  sic  a  story  to-nicht." 

"Weel,  hinny,  an'  I  do,  likely  you  wull  pu' 
the  coverlids  o'er  your  heid  the  nicht." 

"Nae,  I  wunna,  unless  my  heid  gets  cauld," 
laughed  Marjorie. 

"Gi'e  her  ane,  Elspeth.  Gi'e  her  ane  o'  your 
granny's  stories,  an'  I  trow  she  wull  hae  her  fill," 
said  Sir  William. 

"  She  wad  hae  her  fill  an'  I  could  tell  them  as 
granny  tauld  them.  I  mind  that  she  wad  mak' 
me  sae  feared  that  I  wad  hardly  dare  go  to  sleep. 
Weel,  let  me  see;  I  think  I  wull  tell  the  story  o' 
the  Heidless  Ghaist." 

"Gude,  Elspeth;  I  kenned  you  wadna  disap- 
point me,"  said  Marjorie  approvingly. 

"Awa'  on  the  ither  side  o'  the  Grampian 
Hills,  an'  weel  on  to  Inverness,  lived  a  wicked 


THE   HEADLESS  GHOST.  75 

an'  rich  auld  laird  wha  had  niver  a  daughter  but 
ane,  an'  she  was  as  bonnie  as  a  lass  could  weel  be, 
folk  said.  This  lass  loved  a  farmer  laddie.  He, 
tae,  was  gude  leukin',  an'  he  had  the  manners  o' 
a  gentleman.  His  faither  was  weel  enough  to  do 
i'  the  warld,  but  he  wasna  sprung  frae  an  ancient 
family  an'  he  wasna  rich,  you  ken.  Sae  the  laird 
wadna  hear  onything  o'  the  youth,  an'  he  forbade 
him  to  come  near  his  hoose  or  to  speak  wi'  his 
daughter.  But  the  young  folk  wadna  gi'e  each 
ither  up,  an'  they  had  a  trysting-place  i'  a  wood. 
Weel,  somehow  this  came  to  the  laird's  ears. 
Ane  nicht  young  Jamie  went  to  the  tryst,  an' 
soon  after  he  heard  footsteps,  an'  he  thought  that 
it  was  his  sweetheart.  Sae  he  said,  '  Hae  you 
come  sae  soon,  my  dear  love  ?  You  haena  kept 
me  waiting  the  nicht.'  He  hadna  mair  than  spo- 
ken when  the  old  laird  sprang  forward  an'  plunged 
a  dirk  up  to  the  hilt  i'  the  breast  o'  the  youth.  Ja- 
mie fell  utterin'  these  words:  'God  hae  mercy  on 
my  soul,  an'  grant  that  this  my  slayer  may  niver 
hae  an  hour's  peace  as  lang  as  he  bides  in  this 
warld.' 

"Granny  aye  said,  when  she  came  to  those 
wards  o'  Jamie,  that  she  was  sae  glad  that  he 
didna  add,  '  nor  i'  the  ither  warld  either. '  Weel, 
the  bluid  flowed  sae  fast  frae  the  wound  that  life 
wad  hae  soon  gone  oot ;  but  the  laird  didna  ken 


76  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

that.  He  pit  his  feet  upon  Jamie's  body  to  haud 
him  doon,  an'  he  struck  off  his  heid  wi'  his  sword. 
When  this  was  done  he  went  hame  to  get  a  spade, 
for  he  kenned  weel  that  it  wadna  do  to  leave  the 
body  unburied.  When  he  went  back  wi'  the 
spade  an  auld  servant  saw  him  an'  marvelled 
muckle,  and  he  took  it  in  his  heid  to  follow  at  a 
little  distance.  Weel,  afore  the  auld  laird  got 
back  to  the  dead  body  his  daughter  had  found  it. 
The  moonlicht  shawed  her  wha  it  was,  an'  her 
fears  told  her  wha  had  done  the  foul  deed.  She 
took  the  bluidy  dirk  an'  plunged  it  in  her  ain 
body,  an'  then  laid  hersel'  doon  by  Jamie.  She 
took  ane  o'  his  han's  i'  hers,  an'  as  her  faither 
came  up  he  heard  her  say,  '  He  shallna  part  us, 
Jamie;  if  I  canna  live  wi'  you,  I  wull  die  wi'  you. 
God  forgive  faither  for  this  great  sin,  an'  forgive 
me  also  if  I  hae  sinned  in  what  I  hae  done.  I 
trow  that  grief  has  pit  me  beside  mysel'.' 

"She  said  nae  mair,  but  the  laird  fainted  an' 
fell  flat  upon  his  face  in  the  saft  mire.  Weel  was 
it  for  him  that  his  servant  had  followed  him,  or 
he  wad  niver  hae  risen  to  his  feet  again.  When 
the  laird  came  to  himsel'  he  said,  '  Donald,  mon, 
you  maunna  tell  it.  Griselda  maun  hae  done  a' 
this,  but  the  puir  lass  is  dead  noo.  We  wull  gi'e 
oot  that  some  ruffian  has  murdered  my  daughter, 
an'  the  mon  you  maun  bury  here. ' 


THE    HEADLESS   GHOST.  77 

u  '  Oh,  wae  is  me,'  said  Donald,  'that  I  maun 
gi'e  Jamie  Geddes  sic  a  burial,  puir  lad!' 

"  '  Do  as  I  hae  bidden  you  and  dinna  mention 
aught  o'  what  you  hae  seen  to-nicht.  An'  gin 
farmer  Geddes  speirs  at  you  aboot  Jamie,  you 
maun  lee.  I  hae  nae  doot  but  you  hae  leed  mony 
a  time  an'  na  choked  upon  it  either.  Stan'  by  me 
noo  an'  you  wullna  be  the  loser,  I  pledge  you. ' 

"  '  I  wullna  be  the  gainer  in  the  lang  rin  an' 
I  tell  a  lee.  Curse  the  curiosity  that  led  me  to 
follow  you!'  groaned  puir  auld  Donald. 

"  '  Weel,  you  hae  followed,  an'  you  maun  hear 
till  me.' 

"The  auld  mon  took  up  his  spade  an'  wi' 
trembling  han's  began  his  wark,  saying,  'It  is 
hard  that  ane  maun  do  as  he  is  bidden  when  he 
canna  tell  that  he  is  bidden  to  do  richt. ' 

"'Wark  on,  an'  none  o'  your  jabberin',  or 
yoursel'  an'  the  auld  dame  wull  be  turned  oot  o' 
dures. ' 

"Donald  made  an  end  o'  his  dreadfu'  wark, 
an'  then  the  twa  carried  the  puir  dead  damsel 
hame  to  her  mither,  an'  the  mither  straightway 
went  clean  daft.  After  that  nicht  she  niver 
kenned  mair  than  the  simplest  fule  that  iver  was 
born.  Farmer  Geddes  mistrusted  that  the  laird 
had  murdered  his  son,  but  he  couldna  get  haud 
o'  the  laird  wi'  a'  his  money;  sae  he  was  saved 


78  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

frae  the  ban's  o'  the  law,  but  na  frae  unhappi- 
ness.  The  story  goes  that  niver  a  bit  o'  peace  the 
laird  had  afterwards.  Wheniver  he  shut  his  e'en 
i'  the  daytime  he  could  see  the  dead  bodies,  an' 
i'  the  dark  he  aye  saw  them  han'  i'  han'.  Some- 
times when  he  slept  they  would  ca'  him  awake 
an'  stan'  before  him;  niver  were  they  separated, 
an'  the  lad  was  aye  wantin'  his  held,  an'  the  las- 
sie's goon  was  aye  stained  wi'  her  ain  heart's  bluid. 
She  wad  aye  point  at  her  faither  with  her  fore- 
finger, an'  she  niver  took  her  mournfu'  e'en  frae 
him.  The  auld  mon  just  writhed  under  it  a' ;  he 
couldna  eat,  he  couldna  sleep ;  the  vera  winds 
seemed  to  sigh  into  his  ears,  'Thou  art  a  mur- 
derer.' The  sunshine  mocked  him,  an'  it  was 
said  that  he  wad  oft  fa'  a-tearin'  o'  his  ain  flesh. 
As  may  be  expected,  he  soon  wore  oot  an'  the 
grave  claimed  him.  Some  said  that  the  twa 
ghaists  wad  sit  upon  his  grave  the  haill  nicht  an' 
gang  awa'  when  day  was  breakin'. 

"After  the  laird  was  dead  his  puir  auld  wife 
was  taken  awa'  frae  hame  and  naebody  wad  live 
i'  that  ill-fated  hoose.  Auld  Rab  the  fiddler  wad 
tell  lang  stories  aboot  the  sights  he  saw  there, 
an'  granny  wad  believe  them;  but  she  might 
hae  kenned  that  Rab  was  never  sober  enough 
when  he  went  hame  nichts  to  tell  a  ghaist  frae  a 
white  coo. ' ' 


THE   HEADLESS   GHOST.  79 

uHoo  mtickle  o'  that  is  true?"  asked  Marjo- 
rie,  as  Elspeth  concluded. 

"A'  is  true  except  the  part  aboot  the  ghaists. 
That  was  owin'  to  the  disturbed  state  o'  the  auld 
laird's  mind.  Then,  you  ken,  there  are  plenty  o' 
simple-minded  folk  wha  wull  let  their  fears  wark 
upon  them  till  they  baith  see  an'  hear  the  vera 
things  they  fear." 

"That  is  sae,"  assented  Sir  William;  "an' 
though  I  dinna  believe  i'  sic  things,  I  maun  say 
that  sic-like  torment  is  nane  tae  bad  for  a  mur- 
derer." 

' '  Nane  tae  bad, ' '  repeated  Elspeth.  ' '  Think 
o'  a  mon  puttin'  a  lad  oot  o'  the  way  because,  for- 
sooth, he  loved  his  daughter.  Folk  said,  tae,  that 
the  lassie's  mither  had  encouraged  her,  and  said 
that  wealth  an'  position  didna  always  bring  hap- 
piness." 

Had  Elspeth  chosen  her  stories  to  harrow  up 
her  master's  feelings,  she  could  scarcely  have 
taken  a  different  course.  Sir  William  gave  her 
the  credit  of  not  intentionally  disturbing  him,  and 
only  said  within  himself,  "Elspeth's  stories  set 
me  thinkin'  o'  unpleasant  things." 

Marion,  too,  found  much  in  the  story  to  re- 
mind her  that  her  father  had  come  between  her 
and  him  whom  she  loved,  and  she  sat  quietly 
while  the  others  talked. 


80  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

Roger  "remarked,  "I  wad  like  naething  better 
than  to  gang  through  sic  an  auld  empty  hoose.  I 
wad  like  to  see  the  deserted  letik  that  it  wad  wear; 
I  wad  like  to  tread  up  an'  doon  the  empty  halls 
an'  hear  them  sound;  I  wad  like  to  gang  through 
ilka  room  an'  imagine  what  happened  there.  I 
think  I  could  ca'  up  as  mony  merry  lads  an'  lasses, 
stern  dames  an'  dignified  granddames,  an'  as 
mony  men,  baith  gude  an'  bad,  as  iver  lived  in 
an  ancient  hoose.  I  wish  that  I  could  call  them 
up  right  story-like  and  put  them  in  a  book." 

u  Wad  you  then  be  a  writer  o'  buiks,  Roger?" 
queried  Sir  William. 

"  Ay,  sir,  I  wad  an'  I  could." 

"An'  is  that  what  you  are  aye  thinkin'  o'  by 
yoursel',  that  you  dinna  talk  mair?"  asked  Mar- 
jorie. 

"Hoot,  lassie!  I  dinna  think  muckle  o'  con- 
sequence," he  replied. 

"I  dinna  ken  aboot  that,"  persisted  Marjorie. 

Lady  Marion  gave  a  quick  glance  towards 
Roger.  She  wondered  if  she  had  the  clew  to  his 
thoughtfulness.  She  smiled,  but  said  nothing, 
while  Marjorie  asked,  "Wad  you  put  ony thing 
aboot  ghaists  i'  your  buik  ?' ' 

"Nae,  Marjorie,  this  life  is  full  enough  o'  in- 
cidents, an'  they  are  strange  enough,  forbye. 
What  for  should  we  seek  to  gang  into  the  mys- 


THE    HEADLESS   GHOST.  8l 

teries  o'  the  ither  life  ?  I  wish  that  you  wad  hae 
done  wi'  that  likin'  for  ghaist-stories ;  nae  gude 
wull  come  frae  it;  an'  hasna  Elspeth  hersel'  tauld 
you  that  there  is  nae  truth  i'  sic  things?" 

"Ay,  I  ken  it  But  hoo  near  to  the  truth 
wad  you  come  wi'  your  iinaginin'  hoo  people  hae 
lived?" 

' '  I  wad  get  nearer  the  truth  than  if  I  set  oot 
to  tell  what  I  knew  to  be  a  lie.  I  haena  lived 
amaist  a  score  o'  years  for  naething.  I  ken  some- 
thing o'  the  ways  o'  folk  an'  o'  the  warkings  o' 
the  human  heart." 

"  Maist  lads  wadna  care  muckle  aboot  sic 
things  at  your  age,  Roger ;  but  I  can  weel  be- 
lieve that  you  do,"  said  Lady  Marion. 

Roger  was  pleased  with  this  remark,  coming 
from  Lady  Marion,  but  he  made  no  answer. 

"  Hoo  is  it,  Roger?"  said  Sir  William  ;  "has 
the  bit  o'  praise  we  hae  given  silenced  you  ?  Gang 
on  an'  let  us  hear  mair  aboot  your  plans." 

"I  hae  nae  plans;  I  hae  some  fancies,  idle  fan- 
cies, nae  doot;  but  that  is  a',  sir." 

He  seemed  to  have  no  mind  to  talk  more  about 
himself.  He  arose  and  stirred  the  fire  and  put  on 
the  heavy  logs  of  wood  that  were  to  burn  till  morn- 
ing. This  being  done,  the  inmates  of  the  castle 
retired  to  rest. 


Lady  Marlon's  At 


82  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

•%i 

CHAPTER    VIII. 

AINSLIE'S  RETURN. 

THE  winter  had  gone  and  the  early  spring 
was  awakening  new  life  in  all  the  woods  and 
fields.  The  laborers  employed  on  the  many  acres 
of  Felix  Cameron  were  bestirring  themselves,  but 
their  old  master  was  even  harder  to  please  than 
usual.  Evidently  he  was  brooding  over  some 
disappointment,  and  his  servants  were  at  a  loss  to 
know  how  to  please  him. 

At  the  close  of  a  pleasant  day  when  Felix  had 
been  unusually  sullen  a  stranger  came  to  his  door. 
Now  Felix  was  very  fond  of  company,  and  upon 
this  occasion  he  exerted  himself  to  be  agreeable. 
The  stranger  asked  many  questions,  mostly  about 
Cragsby  Castle  and  its  inmates.  This  was  unfor- 
tunate, for  the  old  man's  ill-humor  was  caused  by 
Sir  William's  refusal  to  part  with  some  of  his 
property.  So  Felix  said,  "  The  truth  is,  stranger, 
I  am  in  nae  frame  o'  mind  to  talk  o'  Cragsby 
Castle  or  the  maister  o'  it  either;  I  am  vexed- 
like.  You  dinna  ken  it,  but  I  hae  bought  mony 
a  thing  o1  him  just  to  be  accommodatin',  and  noo 
he  has  some  fine  cattle  that  I  hae  set  my  heart 


AINSLIE' S   RETURN.  83 

on;  but  he  wunna  sell  them,  sae  that  Ainslie  lad 
says." 

"  Ainslie  lad,  did  you  say?" 

"Ay,  Roger  Ainslie  they  ca'  him.  He  an' 
his  sister  hae  been  at  the  castle  for  three  years 
past.  But  what  ails  you,  mon  ?  You  leuk  exci- 
ted-like." 

"I  am  excited.  I  think  I  wull  awa'  to  the 
castle  at  ance.  I  hae  friends  by  the  name  o'  Ains- 
lie, an'  I  wad  ken  if  the  lad  an'  lass  are  ony  kin 
tome." 

"Oh,  stop  the  nicht,  stop  the  nicht.  The 
morrow  wull  be  time  enough  to  gang." 

' '  Nae,  thank  you.     I  think  I  maun  gang  noo. ' ' 

"  Weel,  tak'  your  ain  way,  o'  course.  Good 
nicht  to  you." 

A  half-hour  later  the  stranger  stood  at  the  gate 
before  the  castle.  Roger  was  near  by  in  his 
favorite  seat,  and  he  rose  to  admit  him.  Day- 
light was  over,  but  the  young  moon  was  kindling 
a  light  by  which  the  uncle  and  the  nephew  recog- 
nized each  other. 

' '  You  ken  me,  my  laddie,  do  you  na  ?' ' 

"  You  are  either  Uncle  Roger  or  his  ghaist." 

' '  I  am  nae  ghaist, ' '  replied  the  uncle  as  the 
two  men  embraced  each  other. 

"  Come  up  to  the  castle,"  said  Roger. 

"Nae,"  replied  Ainslie,  "sit  doon  wi'  me  here 


.84  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

a  bit.     I  dinna  ken  as  I  wull  be  welcome  at  the 
castle." 

"  Nae  welcome  at  the  castle  !"  repeated  Roger 
with  some  surprise.  "  I  am  sure  that  you  wull  be 
welcome;  but  gin  you  hae  sic  a  fear  I  wull  rin  up 
an'  fetch  the  maister  himsel'." 

"If  a' body  thinks  that  I  am  dead,  hae  a  care 
an'  nae —  Stop  a  bit;  is  Lady  Marion  married?" 

"  Nae,  she  isna.    Did  you  ken  Lady  Marion  ?" 

"Ay,  I  kenned  her  weel,  an'  I  was  just  going 
to  say,  dinna  tell  her  the  news  too  suddenly." 

"I  wunna." 

When  Roger  reached  Sir  William  his  face  was 
all  aglow  with  excitement. 

"What  is  it,  lad  ?"  asked  the  old  man. 

"  There  is  a  mon  at  the  gate  wha  says  that  he 
isna  sure  o'  a  welcome;  an'  he  wunna  come  in 
till  you  come  doon  an'  bid  him  welcome." 

"Do  you  ken  wha  it  is?" 

"  I  do  that,  an'  richt  weel  too." 

"  Weel,  tell  me  wha  I  am  to  see." 

"  I  wad  liefer  tell  you  ootside." 

When  they  were  out  of  Lady  Marion's  hear- 
ing Roger  said,  "  Maybe  you  wunna  believe  me, 
but  you  will  see -Uncle  Roger  at  the  gate." 

Sir  William  grasped  the  boy's  arm  and  said, 
"  You  tell  a  lee  for  ance,  lad." 

"Weel,  come  an'  see  for  yourseP." 


AINSUE'S   RETURN.  85 

The  old  man  did  not  slacken  his  hold  on  Rog- 
er's arm,  for  he  needed  the  support.  "Weel,  I 
am  glad  that  he  isna  dead,"  he  said.  Trembling 
with  excitement  he  bade  Mr.  Ainslie  welcome, 
adding,  "L,et  the  past  be  forgotten,  and  let  this 
fine  lad  wham  we  baith  love  mak'  us  freends. 
But  hoo  came  it  that  you  werena  drowned  ?" 

"We  were  shipwrecked  an'  lost  a'  on  board, 
an'  I  was  glad  to  escape  wi'  my  life.  Lafe  has 
been  weary  ever  since;  an'  when  I  came  back  to 
Scotland  I  could  get  nae  news  o'  Dalziel  or  the 
bairns.  It  is  only  by  a  seeming  accident  that  I 
hae  noo  found  them,  though  nae  doot  the  Lord 
has  guided  me  when  I  knew  it  not." 

"Maist  likely,  maist  likely,"  said  Sir  Wil- 
liam in  a  husky  voice. 

They  were  now  within  the  castle.  Mr.  Ains- 
lie was  not  taken  to  the  family  sitting-room,  but 
thither  the  father  repaired  to  inform  Marion  as 
best  he  could. 

"  My  daughter,  can  you  bear  some  vera  strange 
news?" 

"  I  think  sae,  faither.     What  can  it  be?" 

"Weel,  he  that  we  thought  deed  is  alive  an' 
under  oor  ain  roof." 

' '  Wha,  faither  ?     Not  Ainslie  !" 

"Ay,  it  is  Ainslie,  safe  an'  sound." 

Marion   fainted  and    Elspeth    was   called    to 


86  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

attend  her.  Sir  William  looked  on,  thinking  that 
his  daughter  must  have  loved  deeply,  and  he  re- 
solved that  if  Mr.  Ainslie  should  renew  his  atten- 
tions he  would  withdraw  his  objections. 

Marjorie  was  overjoyed  to  see  her  uncle.  She 
could  not  talk  fast  enough  to  him,  and  among 
other  things  she  told  "Leddy  Marion  fainted  clean 
awa'  when  she  kenned  that  you  were  here. ' '  But 
not  till  long  after  did  Marion  know  that  Marjorie' s 
nim'ble  tongue  had  told  what  she  hoped  to  keep  a 
secret. 

The  meeting  between  Marion  and  Ainslie  was 
a  private  one,  but  Marjorie  was  convinced  that 
they  must  have  had  a  pleasant  time.  She  said 
to  her  uncle,  "I  didna  ken  that  you  were  ac- 
quainted wi'  Leddy  Marion,  but  I  am  sure  o'  ane 
thing." 

"  What  is  that,  Marjorie?"  asked  her  uncle. 

"  That  you  maun  love  her.  A' body  that  kens 
her  loves  her,  young  an'  auld,  rich  an'  puir.  She 
is  a  friend  to  ilka  ane,  an'  ilka  ane  is  a  friend  to 
her." 

"  Weel,  Marjorie,  you  hae  made  a  broad  asser- 
tion, but  I  think  you  are  richt,"  her  uncle  re- 
plied. 

Ainslie  was  urged  to  remain  for  some  time  at 
the  castle,  for  all  saw  that  he  needed  rest  and 
recreation.  The  worriment  caused  by  the  disap- 


'  AINSLIE' S    RETURN.  87 

pearance  of  his  brother's  children  and  the  other 
troubles  that  he  had  seen  had  added  full  ten  years 
to  his  life.  But  after  he  found  the  children  in  such 
excellent  health  and  spirits  he  concluded  that  the 
reckless  experiment  of  Dalziel  had  worked  no 
harm  to  them;  and,  judging  from  the  many  words 
spoken  in  their  praise,  he  naturally  thought  that 
Sir  William  had  suffered  no  loss  through  them. 
If  he  had  any  doubts  that  they  were  welcome  they 
vanished  when  he  talked  of  removing  them.  Sir 
William  and  his  daughter  were  not  long  in  ma- 
king themselves  understood.  Old  Elspeth  was 
loud  in  her  protestations  against  the  plan,  while 
Stephen  made  little  less  ado. 

Both  of  the  old  servants,  fearing  that  they 
would  lose  the  young  Ainslies,  tried  to  convince 
the  uncle  that  Roger  and  Marjorie  ought  not  to 
leave  the  castle.  It  was  not  known  to  them  that 
arrangements  had  been  made  to  leave  them  for 
the  present,  at  least. 

Mr.  Ainslie  was  crossing  a  field  on  his  way 
back  from  a  walk.  Old  Stephen  was  in  the  field 
ploughing.  He  sat  down  on  the  beam  of  the 
plough  to  rest  and  commenced  to  talk  to  Mr. 
Ainslie. 

"  You  see  yoursel'  hoo  I  gi'e  oot.  My  strength 
is  but  sma' ;  time  has  been  when  nae  wark  wad 
fash  or  fright  me.  Though  I  say  it  mysel',  there 


88  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

wasna  a  mon  i'  a'  the  country  roun'  that  could 
gi'e  better  satisfaction  at  the  plough.  But  auld 
age  is  upon  me,  an'  there  is  need  for  a  young  an' 
a  strang  mon  to  step  i'  my  place.  Roger  is  gude 
at  wark  noo,  an'  sic  a  manager  as  he  wull  be !  I 
maun  say  that  I  am  surprised  at  him;  he  is  far 
frae  ordinar.  The  maister  has  taken  a  wonderful 
fancy  to  him  forbye.  I  maun  confess  that  I  was 
a  bit  jealous  o'  him  ance;  but  I  thought  better  o' 
it,  an'  I  said  to  mysel',  '  Stephen  Watson,  you  are 
an  auld  fule  wi'  your  hot  haste  to  wax  wroth. 
Cauna  you  see  that  the  auld  maun  be  set  aside  an' 
the  young  maun  take  their  places  ?'  Weel,  that 
was  near  twelve  months  sin';  noo  no  ane  can 
think  mair  o'  the  lad  than  I  do  mysel'.  An'  he 
is  weel  pleased  here  tae;  speir  at  him  an'  see  if  he 
isna.  Be  persuaded  noo  by  ane  it  may  be  has  nae 
richt  to  speak,  but  ane  wha  has  the  gude  o'  his 
freends  at  heart  an'  an  awfu'  care  for  the  weel  fare 
an'  honor  o'  Cragsby  Castle,  ane  wha  wull  soon 
be  gathered  to  his  faithers  an'  be  beyond  all 
earthly  moil  an'  care." 

Stephen  paused  to  wipe  the  perspiration  from 
his  brow,  and  then  added,  "  Let  me  hae  a  prom- 
ise that  you  wunna  strip  us  o'  oor  strength  an' 
take  awa'  oor  main  dependence." 

"I  think  I  maun  promise,  Stephen;  but  what 
am  I  to  do,  a  lonely  mon?" 


AINSLIE' s  RETURN.  89 

' '  Ye  maun  marry  like  ither  folk, ' '  he  replied, 
his  face  breaking  into  a  smile. 

' '  Some  things  are  easier  said  than  done,  Ste- 
phen." 

"Ay,  some  things  are;  but  I  hae  a  notion,  an' 
I  amna  alane  in  it,  that  you  could  wed  withoot 
goin'  a  thousand  miles  frae  here. ' ' 

Old  Stephen  went  on  with  his  ploughing,  and 
Ainslie  walked  back  to  the  castle  only  to  fall  in 
with  Elspeth,  who  at  once  said,  "Mr.  Ainslie,  I 
maun  speak  oot.  I  feel  amaist  like  her  we  read  o' 
i'  the  Holy  Scripture,  her  wha  said  to  the  mon  o' 
God,  *  Did  I  desire  a  son  ?'  Sae  I  say  noo,  did  ony 
o'  us  desire  that  these  pleasant  young  people  should 
be  sent  here  till  oor  affections  should  be  entwined 
around  them  an'  then  hae  them  taken  awa'  ? 
Marjorie  is  sic  a  cheerfu',  winsome  lass  that  I  love 
her  next  to  my  ain  leddy  hersel'.  The  castle  has 
seemed  like  a  different  place  sin'  the  bairns  came 
here.  Roger,  wi'  his  calm,  self-reliant  air,  an' 
Marjorie  wi'  her  sweet  ways  an'  her  wee  pleasant- 
ries, hae  been  the  life  o'  us  a'.  Surely  you  wun- 
na  consign  us  to  gloom  a'thegither."  Then  with 
some  embarrassment  she  went  on,  "I  thought  for 
sure  that  you  yoursel'  wad  find  some  attraction 
here,  Mr.  Ainslie.  I  amna  sae  auld  that  I  hae 
lost  my  memory.  I  haena  forgotten  what  you 
ance  bade  me  tell  Leddy  Marion." 


QO  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

"Then  it  was  different,  Elspeth.  I  had  no 
ane  but  mysel'  to  look  after.  Noo  I  hae  these 
bairns  o'  my  brither,  wha  i'  the  providence  o' 
God  maun  be  considered  as  my  ain." 

"Hoot,  mon!  hasna  the  providence  o'  God 
found  a  name  for  them?  I  tell  you,  the  haill 
three  o'  you  belong  to  Cragsby  Castle  as  sure  as 
my  name  is  Elspeth  Lundie."  Then,  shaking 
her  head  in  a  knowing  manner,  she  continued, 
"The  maister  wunna  hae  aught  against  it  noo. 
He  has  mair  than  ance  said  that  he  is  glad  o'  the 
answer  my  leddy  gave  yon  Dalziel.  You  think  I 
dinna  ken,  but  I  do.  We  hae  been  i'  straits  an' 
*we  hae  passed  through  lanely  years,  an'  auld  Els- 
peth has  mair  than  ance  been  taken  into  confi- 
dence." 

"Beware,  Elspeth,  that  you  dinna  bid  me 
hope  for  too  much;  you  ken  that  I  hae  been  a 
sad,  weary  mon  a'  these  years." 

"Ay,  I  ken  that,  an'  I  dinna  bid  you  hope 
for  tae  muckle."  Then  catching  a  mischievous 
look  in  his  eye,  she  said,  "Awa'  wi'  you!  You 
are  but  makin'  game  o'  me.  I  trow  that  you  hae 
the  bargain  fast  made  afore  noo." 

Ainslie  laughed,  and  Elspeth  joined  him  in 
spite  of  herself,  for  she  had  half  a  mind  to  be 
offended  that  anything  so  important  should  have 
escaped  her  notice. 


AINSLIE'S    RETURN.  91 

But  so  it  was.  Quietly,  very  quietly,  had  all 
been  arranged,  and  the  old  longing  in  Marion's 
heart  was  met.  She  had  indeed  clasped  that 
"warm,  friendly,  loving  hand  again."  And 
Ainslie,  the  tempest -tossed  yet  trusting  Chris- 
tian, found  himself  surrounded  by  friends  and 
relatives,  and  he  praised  the  goodness  of  God 
who  "setteth  the  solitary  in  families." 


92  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

GENTLE  ANNIE. 

WHILE  our  friends  at  the  castle  had  been 
struggling  with  the  troubles  growing  out  of  a 
narrow  income  Dalziel  was  away  in  Condon  rev- 
elling in  wealth  and  luxury.  He  felt  that  no  one 
depended  upon  him  or  would  call  him  to  account, 
nor  did  he  remember  his  allegiance  to  God.  He 
found  an  ill-judged  pleasure  in  this  unbridled  lib- 
erty. No  qualms  of  conscience  troubled  his  obdu- 
rate heart,  no  thought  of  the  hereafter  crossed  his 
mind,  and  the  happiness  of  others  was  nothing  to 
him.  To  follow  him  we  must  paint  many  a  scene 
of  crime  and  shame  from  which  the  mind  of  the 
pure  would  revolt.  But  one  story,  perhaps  the 
saddest  of  all,  we  will  relate. 

Far  on  the  outskirts  of  the  busy,  throbbing 
metropolis  of  England  lived  Elizabeth  Morris  and 
her  granddaughter  Annie.  She  was  a  sweet, 
pleasant  girl,  and  she  was  called  among  the  neigh- 
bors ' '  Gentle  Annie. ' '  Both  were  women  of  good 
repute  and  all  around  them  were  pleased  to  show 
them  many  little  acts  of  kindness.  Annie,  al- 
though young,  had  won  the  heart  of  a  worthy 


GENTLE   ANNIE.  93 

mechanic,  Thomas  Barton  by  name.  The  grand- 
mother looked  upon  the  youth  as  her  future  grand- 
son, and  a  great  load  was  taken  from  her  mind 
when  she  thought  that  Annie  would  not  be  left 
alone  and  unprotected  when  she  died.  She  had 
always  been  a  woman  of  thrift,  and  the  little  cot- 
tage was  the  scene  of  comfort  and  contentment. 

But  into  this  peaceful,  secluded  home  came 
one  whose  presence  was  a  blight  upon  its  happi- 
ness. Malcolm  Dalziel,  led  by  some  spirit  of 
evil,  found  his  way  there.  In  vain  did  the  gray- 
haired  woman  warn  her  unsuspecting  grandchild. 
Gentle  Annie  thought  of  nothing  but  the  soft, 
smooth  words  and  the  dark,  flashing  eyes  of  the 
stranger.  Poor  Tom  Barton  also  felt  Annie's 
danger.  Dalziel  knew  this  and  enjoyed  the  wor- 
riment  that  his  visits  at  the  cottage  caused  him. 

A  private  marriage  soon  took  place,  and  the 
girl  felt  secure  and  happy.  She  explained  to  her 
anxious  grandmother  that  all  her  fears  were 
groundless.  She  could  not,  she  argued,  lose  such 
a  superior  chance.  She  felt  sorry  for  Tom  Bar- 
ton; but  kind  as  he  was,  she  considered  her  con- 
duct perfectly  justifiable.  She  had  read  many 
stories  of  lowly  maidens  who  married  above  their 
stations,  and  these  stories  had  taken  possession  of 
her  mind.  She  was  intoxicated  with  the  glittering 
gold  she  saw  and  with  the  fair  promises  of  all  she 


94  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

was  to  become.  ' '  I  shall  make  something  of  you, 
my  sweet  Annie;  you  will  be  astonished  at  your- 
self," he  would  say. 

But  the  dullest  of  minds  can  anticipate  in 
what  way  his  words  became  true.  It  is  easy  to 
believe  that  he  made  her  a  heart-broken  woman, 
and  she  was  astonished  at  her  own  blindness  and 
wilfulness.  Dalziel  never  took  her  from  the  cot- 
tage, and  before  many  mouths  were  passed  he  left 
her,  never  to  return.  In  another  half-year  she 
gave  birth  to  a  son. 

Long  she  looked  for  Dalziel,  hoping  against 
hope.  At  last  she  gave  him  up  and  asked  for 
no  sympathy,  for  she  felt  that  she  did  not  deserve 
it.  She  labored  early  and  late  that  her  grand- 
mother's property  might  be  exempt  from  drafts 
to  support  the  child.  She  would  not  give  him  a 
name,  but  called  him  "  Baby"  when  she  spoke  of 
him.  Three  more  years  of  grief  and  toil  ended 
her  life.  In  her  last  days  her  grandmother  asked, 
"Annie  dear,  will  you  not  name  your  child?" 

"Call  him  Thomas,"  she  answered;  then  she 
burst  into  tears.  Recovering  her  voice  she  said, 
"Alas,  grandmother,  that  one  can  do  in  so  short  a 
time  what  a  whole  lifetime  cannot  undo  !  But 
then  for  me  it  will  not  matter  long.  It  seems 
hard  that  the  one  mistake  of  my  life  should  kill 
me;  but  it  is  just,  or  a  just  God  would  not  suffer 


GENTLE  ANNIE.  95 

it  to  be.  When  I  am  gone  tell  Thomas  that  I 
knew  at  last  that  all  was  wrong.  He  will  forgive 
me  then,  for  no  earthly  tie  shall  bind  me.  After 
death  we  shall  neither  marry  nor  be  given  in  mar- 
riage, but  we  shall  be  as  the  angels  of  heaven,  our 
dear  Lord  hath  said.  To  him  shall  I  belong  who 
bought  me  with  his  blood.  I  will  not  deny  that 
I  find  some  pleasure  in  the  thought  that  I  shall 
be  loosed  from  the  unhappy  bond  that  holds  me, 
even  though  death  must  be  the  liberator.  Ask 
Thomas  if  he  will  have  a  little  care  over  his  name- 
sake for  the  sake  of  what  we  were  to  each  other  in 
our  early  years.  I  am  sure  that  he  will.  He  was 
aye  truer  to  me  than  I  was  to  him.  Well,  I  can- 
not recall  the  past,  but  I  wish  that  my  mistake 
might  be  written  in  a  book  as  a  warning  to  all 
giddy  maids  that  they  weigh  well  their  thoughts 
before  they  change  into  deeds.  If  he  whom  I 
will  not  name  returns,  tell  him  I  left  but  one  mes- 
sage for  him.  Tell  him  to  make  his  peace  with 
God.  I  hope  that  he  will  not  know  about  the 
child,  and  I  would  rather  that  the  child  should 
not  know  about  him.  But  I  cannot  arrange  these 
things.  I  am  weary  of  thinking,  and  all  my  think- 
ing has  come  too  late.  Forgive  me,  dear,  good 
grandmother,  that  I  did  not  heed  your  advice." 
"Ay,  sweetheart,  a  thousand  times  I  forgive 


96  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

Both  ceased  speaking,  and  Annie  soon  fell 
asleep. 

In  a  few  days  the  grandmother  saw  by  the  un- 
easiness in  Annie's  movements  that  death  was 
approaching.  She  picked  at  the  coverlid  and 
rolled  her  head,  tossing  her  heavy  ringlets  about 
the  pillow.  Thomas  Barton  and  his  mother  were 
called  in,  but  Annie  did  not  know  them;  she 
stared  at  them  with  a  vacant  look  in  her  blue 
eyes. 

"  I  cannot  abide  it,"  said  Thomas,  and  he  left 
the  house. 

"Yet  I  must  abide  it,  even  if  I  am  left  all 
alone,"  said  the  afflicted  grandmother. 

"  I  will  not  leave  you,  and,  believe  me,  Thom- 
as is  not  far  away,"  answered  Mrs.  Barton. 

The  odor  of  sweet-scented  herbs  came  in 
through  the  window  that  summer  morning.  An- 
nie caught  their  perfume,  and  in  her  confused 
state  of  mind  she  fancied  that  it  was  borne  in 
upon  her  senses  from  the  other  world. 

"It  surely  must  be  a  land  of  delight,"  she 
murmured,  "for  already  I  catch  odors  sweeter 
than  thyme  or  southernwood  or  any  flower  that 
grew  in  our  garden.  The  way  is  so  plain  and  the 
ascent  so  easy!  Annie,  poor  Annie,  you  will  have 
peace  again,  and  all  through  the  infinite  compas- 
sion of  the  Lord  Jesus !" 


GENTLE   ANNIE.  97 

She  said  no  more.  The  graceful  head  lay 
quietly  upon  the  pillow,  there  was  a  slight  quiver 
about  the  lips,  and  Annie  had  ceased  to  breathe. 

"Her  life  has  gone  out,"  said  Mrs.  Barton. 
Then  finding  Thomas  she  said,  ' '  The  struggle  is 
over. ' ' 

Tom  Barton  went  a  little  way  from  the  house, 
and  sitting  down  by  the  brookside  he  wept  bit- 
terly for  the  early  dead.  Surely  he  forgave  her 
now,  if  never  before.  Soon  he  took  his  way 
homeward  with  his  mind  somewhat  calmer,  but 
he  was  still  sad  over  the  blighted  life  of  the  only 
one  he  had  ever  loved.  In  the  way  before  him 
stood  a  "coach  and  four."  Evidently  something 
was  wrong;  but  he  had  no  mind  to  meet  any  one, 
and  was  about  turning  away  into  the  field  when 
the  familiar  voice  of  one  of  his  neighbors  accosted 
him.  "I  say,  Tom,  come  here  and  lend  us  a 
hand.  These  gentlemen  have  broken  down  and 
they  need  help." 

Tom  pulled  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes  and 
walked  up  to  the  group.  Jim  detected  his  sad- 
ness and  he  asked,  "  How  is  she,  Gentle  Annie?" 

"  Cold  in  death  !" 

' '  Poor  lass !  I  wonder  where  that  cursed 
knave  is  ?" 

' '  He  is  somewhere  in  the  service  of  the  devil, 
I  '11  be  bound.  But  I  do  n't  want  to  think  of  him. 

Lady  Marion's  Answer.  7 


98  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

It  is  well  for  him  that  he  does  not  cross  my 
path  the  morn.  Give  me  a  strong  cord  if  you 
have  it." 

The  other  produced  a  string  that  would  an- 
swer. Tom  tied  it  through  the  incisions  that  he 
had  made  in  the  broken  harness.  The  driver 
then  pronounced  it  safe  till  they  could  reach  the 
nearest  village. 

The  coach  moved  away,  but  Jim  and  Tom 
stood  talking  when  a  pair  of  black  eyes  looked 
back  at  them  through  the  window.  Dalziel,  for 
it  was  he,  had  started  with  some  friends  upon  a 
tour  of  pleasure.  He  had  been  the  life  of  the 
party  till  the  accident  took  place,  when  he  be- 
came very  quiet. 

"What  is  amiss  with  you,  Dalziel;  you  are 
not  like  yourself?"  asked  one  of  the  friends. 

"Well,  one  hates  to  break  down.  Of  course 
this  amounted  to  nothing,  but  it  might  happen  at 
some  swift  turn  in  the  road  and  send  us  to  our 
account  in  a  hurry." 

"  Have  you  then  such  a  bad  account?" 

"  Aboot  like  your  ain,"  answered  Dalziel,  us- 
ing his  native  tongue,  as  he  always  did  in  his  un- 
guarded moments. 

The  whole  party  laughed,  for  they  were  ready 
to  concede  that  there  was  very  little  difference 
between  them.  Still  the  spirit  of  revelry  seemed 


GENTLE   ANNIE.  99 

to  be  damped.  As  for  Dalziel,  he  knew  from  the 
few  words  that  he  overheard  that  curses  were 
being  heaped  upon  him  by  the  simple-minded 
folk  that  gathered  in  Elizabeth  Morris'  little  cot- 
tage. 

Quietly  and  sadly  the  neighbors  gathered  on 
the  day  of  Annie's  funeral.  The  morning  was 
still  and  cool  and  everything  whispered  of  peace, 
but  it  was  a  solemn  peace.  The  reading  was 
solemn,  the  prayer  was  solemn,  but  more  solemn 
than  either  was  the  pale  face  of  Gentle  Annie 
lying  in  the  sleep  of  death.  The  wrinkled  face  of 
Elizabeth  Morris  wore  the  calm  that  came  from 
thinking  of  the  greater  sufferings  of  Gethsem- 
ane.  The  whole  atmosphere  seemed  filled  with 
the  presence  of  the  blessed  Lord.  It  was  as  if  he 
stood  in  their  midst  saying  once  more,  "Peace 
I  leave  with  you,  my  peace  I  give  unto  you. ' ' 

And  surely  it  was  his  peace  that  subdued 
Tom  Barton  as  he  looked  on  the  coffined  clay  of 
his  early  friend  who  should  have  been  more  than 
a  friend  to  him.  He  turned  away  with  a  sigh 
that  seemed  to  say,  "It  is  all  past  now.  I  will 
leave  it  with  Him  who  has  suffered  it  to  be  so." 

In  the  morning  Thomas  Barton  called  at  the 
cottage,  for  he  knew  that  Mrs.  Morris  had  some- 
thing to  communicate.  When  he  heard  Annie's 
message  his  tears  flowed  freely.  He  took  the 


ioo  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

little  Thomas  on  his  knee  and  said,  "I  can  love 
him,  since  he  looks  like  his  mother."  He  kissed 
the  little  red  mouth  that  the  child  held  up  to  him. 
Then  he  turned  to  the  grandmother  and  said, 
"The  child  shall  never  want  for  a  friend  while 
I  live." 


LADY  MARION'S  MARRIAGE.  101 

CHAPTER   X. 
LADY  MARION'S  MARRIAGE. 

MR.  AINSLIE  went  away,  settled  his  business 
affairs,  and  brought  back  no  paltry  sum  with  him. 
Then  there  began  to  be  a  great  stir  in  the  castle, 
for  a  wedding  was  approaching.  Sir  William 
was  in  excellent  spirits  and  Marjorie's  joy  was 
unbounded.  Roger  smiled  oftener  and  his  smile 
lingered  longer  than  usual.  I/ady  Marion  was 
very  quiet,  but  it  was  easy  to  see  that  she  was 
happy.  Elspeth's  time  was  divided  between  in- 
structing the  new  servants  and  attending  to  her 
own  duties.  Occasionally  she  would  find  time 
for  a  short  chat  with  some  one,  and  when  talking 
of  the  coming  marriage  always  concluded  by  say- 
ing, "I  hae  thought  many  times  that  Mr.  Ains- 
lie  would  be  back  again." 

One  evening  Elspeth  went  to  Stephen's  cot- 
tage to  spend  an  hour.  As  may  be  supposed,  the 
time  was  well  improved.  Not  that  Elspeth  di- 
vulged anything  that  had  been  committed  to  her 
keeping,  but  general  matters  were  talked  over. 

' '  I  hear  that  Leddy  Annie  is  to  be  here.  Weel 
I  remember  the  last  time  that  she  was  at  the 


102  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

castle;  it  was  not  lang  after  oor  leddy  died,"  said 
Stephen. 

"Ay,  I  ken,"  said  Elspeth;  "but  there  be 
things  that  arena  for  us  to  speak  o'  too  familiar- 
ly." She  was  afraid  that  something  might  be 
said  that  would  displease  their  employers,  for  all 
knew  that  Lady  Annie  left  the  castle  because  she 
and  Sir  William  had  some  misunderstanding.  So 
she  added,  ' '  It  wunna  do  for  us  to  say  a'  that 
we  know  aboot." 

"Ay,  I  ken  that  is  sae,  but  do  you  think 
that  I  hae  forgotten  the  leuk  o'  her  as  she  softly 
smoothed  wi'  her  lily-white  hand  Hannah's  hair? 
She  had  the  fever,  you  mind.  When  ane  is  good 
to  Hannah,  I  mind  that,  you  see." 

"I  'se  warrant  you  mind  that,"  said  Hannah, 
the  slightest  shade  of  pink  coming  into  her  sal- 
low cheeks.  Then  she  added,  "I  mind  her  kind- 
ness mysel',  an'  I  wull  be  right  glad  to  see  her 
again." 

"We  all  wull  be  glad  to  see  her;  but  Leddy 
Marion  is  the  ane  wha  wull  rejoice  the  most.  I 
trow  that  she  is  wearying  for  a  sight  o'  her  mo- 
ther's kin.  Leddy  Annie  wull  bring  Edith  Grant, 
her  niece,  with  her.  I  declare,  it  wull  seem  fine 
to  hae  sic  grand  company  again  at  the  castle." 

"Wha  else  are  to  be  guests  at  the  castle?  I 
haena  heard  muckle  aboot  it,"  said  Hannah. 


LADY  MARION'S  MARRIAGE.  103 

"Oh,  a  haill  chance  o'  folk  frae  the  toon, 
squires  an'  lawyers  an'  doctors  an'  grand  folk. 
But  oor  leddy  wullna  hae  ony  foolishness  wi'  sae 
mony  gowns  as  some  brides  hae.  She  says  the 
Campbell  hoose  isna  what  it  ance  was;  an'  wull 
you  believe  it,  she  doesna  care  muckle  for  the 
family  jewels!  I  think  she  wad  like  to  drop  a' 
titles  an'  be  called  Marion  Campbell." 

"I  think  she  wad  rather  be  called  Marion 
Ainslie,"  said  old  Stephen,  smiling. 

"Of  course  she  wunna  wear  the  name  o' 
Campbell  muckle  langer." 

"Noo,"  said  Stephen,  "I  hae  heard  pleas- 
ant news  the  day.  I  heard  that  Ainslie  has 
bought  the  horses  back  again,  but  neither  Sir 
William  nor  Leddy  Marion  are  to  ken  aboot  it 
till  the  horses  are  brought  to  the  vera  dure.  Sae 
you  maunna  say  onything  aboot  it.  I  thought  it 
wad  gi'e  you  pleasure,  sae  I  didna  keep  it  frae 
you.  It  was  Roger's  thought,  an'  his  uncle  fell 
in  with  the  plan  at  ance.  Auld  Felix  had  nae 
mind  to  part  wi'  the  beasts;  but  his  grandson, 
Graham  Walker,  persuaded  the  old  mon  to  gi'e 
consent." 

"Nae  wonder  that  Graham  spoke  a  gude  ward 
for  the  Ainslies,  for  he  has  his  eye  on  Marjorie. 
I  hae  to  laugh  to  see  the  lass.  She  kens  weel 
enough  that  he  is  fond  o'  her,  but  she  never  lets 


MARION'S  ANSWER. 

him  see  that  she  kens  it,  an'  he,  puir  lad,  tak's 
muckle  trouble  to  give  her  the  understanin'  o'  it 
I  wad  be  right  weel  pleased  gin  they  did  mak' 
a  match;  for  some  ane  will  coax  her  frae  us,  an' 
this  wadna  be  goin'  far. ' ' 

"  I  dinna  ken,  Elspeth.  Felix  is  sic  a  crabbed 
auld  soul  that  I  dinna  see  hoo  ony  ane  stands  it 
under  the  same  roof  wi'  him.  It  wad  be  a  thou- 
sand pities  to  sour  oor  Marjorie's  sunny  temper. 
Hannah,  here,  thinks  she  is  the  maist  winsome, 
light-hearted  lass  that  she  ever  kenned." 

UI  hae  thought  aboot  that  mysel',  but  Mar- 
jorie  and  Graham  are  baith  young.  Bootless 
auld  Felix  wull  be  weel  oot  o'  the  way  before  the 
merriage  wull  tak'  place.  Let  me  see,  Felix 
maun  be  fu'  ten  years  upon  borrowed  time  noo." 

"Is  that  sae?  I  didna  ken  that  he  is  sae 
auld,  but  I  did  ken  that  he  is  muckle  aulder  than 
he  is  gude,"  said  Hannah. 

"Weel,  Hannah  Watson,  I  am  surprised  to 
hear  you  say  that  muckle  against  ony  ane,"  said 
Elspeth,  rather  enjoying  Hannah's  remark. 

"Weel,  there  is  nae  gude  in  saying  aught 
against  ony  ane.  If  folk  are  sae  vera  bad,  we 
maunna  foul  oor  tongues  wi'  talkin'  o'  them ;  ail' 
if  they  arena  bad,  why  should  they  be  leed  aboot? 
Besides,  ither  folks'  business  isna  my  business, 
an'  why  should  I  mak'  it  sae?" 


LADY  MARION'S  MARRIAGE.  105 

"You  are  right  there;  it  isna  right  for  us  to 
trouble  oorsel's,"  assented  Elspeth.  "But  my 
dear  leddy's  merriage  seems  to  be  my  business. 
An'  I  am  sae  glad  that  a'  is  coming  oot  right,  as 
far  as  human  eye  can  see." 

"Of  course,  Elspeth,  we  maun  rejoice  wi' 
those  wha  do  rejoice,  as  well  as  weep  wi'  those 
wha  weep." 

Stephen  cast  an  approving  glance  upon  Han- 
nah. He  thought  that  all  her  words  could  not  be 
said  better.  He  often  said  within  himself,  "Ste- 
phen Watson,  you  are  a  lucky  mon  to  hae  sic  a 
wise,  quiet,  wee  wife." 

"Weel,  I  maun  be  going.  To-morrow  we 
wull  begin  oor  preparations  for  the  merriage- 
feast,  an'  I  maunna  be  late  the  morn.  Hannah, 
we  wull  need  you  the  day  after  to-morrow.  That 
is  what  I  came  to  tell  you,  an'  I  amaist  forgot  it. 
Weel,  my  heid  is  that  fu'  that  it  is  nae  wonder 
that  I  forget  some  things.  Gude  nicht  to  you 
baith." 

On  the  following  morning  Marion  was  looking 
from  her  window.  She  was  reviewing  the  past, 
and  she  was  so  lost  in  her  thoughts  she  did  not 
notice  that  anything  unusual  was  taking  place 
until  she  heard  the  neighing  of  a  horse.  She  im- 
mediately thought  of  Rory,  and  looking  down  she 
saw  the  gentle  creature  all  saddled  as  if  waiting 


io6  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

for  some  one.  Graham  Walker  held  his  head,  and 
one  of  Felix  Cameron's  farm-hands  was  leading 
the  carriage-horses  up  the  road. 

It  did  not  take  Marion  long  to  understand  the 
situation.  She  donned  her  riding-habit  and  was 
soon  in  her  accustomed  seat  on  Rory's  back.  An- 
other horse  was  saddled  for  Mr.  Ainslie,  and  be- 
fore long  the  pair  rode  away.  Elspeth  hung  out 
of  the  window  to  watch  them,  and  when  she 
turned  away,  Marjorie  cried,  "Weel,  Elspeth,  I 
do  declare,  you  hae  tears  i'  your  e'en." 

"  An'  you  wad  hae  tears  i'  your  ain,  gin  you 
were  as  glad  as  I  am." 

Elspeth  and  the  rest  of  the  servants  were  very 
busy  during  the  days  that  followed.  Within  this 
time  the  choicest  of  the  flocks  and  herds  were  ap- 
propriated for  the  wedding  festivities.  Meantime 
Lady  Annie  arrived  with  her  niece,  Edith  Grant. 
The  large  rooms,  so  long  closed,  were  opened, 
renovated,  and  some  were  refurnished.  It  had 
been  understood,  when  Sir  William  gave  his  con- 
sent to  the  marriage,  that  his  daughter  was  never 
to  leave  him.  So  as  the  castle  was  to  be  Ainslie' s 
home,  he  claimed  the  right  to  spend  some  money 
in  supplying  its  needs. 

Elspeth  was  very  joyful  at  this  time,  for  she 
was  sure  that  prosperity  was  returning  to  the 
castle. 


LADY  MARION'S  MARRIAGE.  107 

But  how  did  the  gentle  Lady  Marion  bear  all 
these  changes  ?  Already  she  seemed  to  be  placed 
across  those  long  weary  years  that  had  passed  be- 
tween the  time  of  her  answer  to  Dalziel  and  Ains- 
lie's  return.  The  old  light  had  come  back  to  her 
eyes,  the  pallor  was  gone.  God  had  not  forsaken 
her  in  her  trouble;  he  had  not  left  her  without 
some  degree  of  comfort  in  her  years  of  darkness; 
and  now  with  his  approbation  she  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  realizing  the  fulfilment  of  her  earthly  hopes. 
She  still  loved  to  work  with  Elspeth,  but  the  old 
servant  would  not  allow  her  to  do  so.  She  would 
answer,  "Gang  oot  o'  the  kitchen,  my  leddy. 
Gang  an'  tak'  a  ride  upon  Rory ;  it  wull  do  you 
gude." 

Once  she  said  to  Lady  Marion  as  she  came  in 
from  a  walk,  "My  dear  leddy,  you  are  getting 
your  bloom  a'  back  again,  an'  I  am  overjoyed  to 
see  it.  I  wunna  speak  o'  the  bitter  past,  but  leuk 
what  changes  oor  gude  Faither  can  bring  aboot. 
It  seems  to  me  that  even  the  wee  burnie  maun 
ken  the  gladness  that  hangs  aboot  the  auld  place. 
Nature  seems  to  wear  a  mair  cheerfu'  face,  but  I 
expect  that  it  is  oor  ain  joy  that  mak's  us  think 
sae.  At  ony  rate,  it  is  a  new  proof  o'  the  gude- 
ness  o'  the  Lord." 

"Ay,  Elspeth,  surely  we  maun  see  the  gude- 
ness  o'  the  Lord  in  a'  that  is  granted  to  us.  We 


io8  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

maun  continue  to  be  faithfu'  an'  na  forget  to 
whom  our  thanks  are  due. ' ' 

Lady  Marion  was  delighted  to  see  her  cousin, 
Lady  Annie.  She  talked  a  great  deal  to  Marion 
about  her  mother,  and  she  felt  that  she  had  lost 
much  all  the  years  that  Lady  Annie  had  absented 
herself  from  the  castle. 

When  the  wedding-day  dawned  it  seemed  that 
nature  had  been  determined  to  grant  a  perfect 
day.  "It  is  a  gude  omen,  my  leddy,"  said  El- 
speth.  "I  dinna  believe  muckle  i'  signs,  but 
you  ken  they  say,  '  Happy  is  the  bride  that  the 
sun  shines  on.'  " 

There  was  no  lack  of  good-will  among  the 
guests  and  no  lack  of  good  cheer  at  the  wedding- 
feast.  It  was  a  happy  time,  and  perhaps  no  one 
was  happier  and  better  satisfied  than  Sir  William, 
and  his  mental  comment  was,  "  Hoo  we  do  mis- 
calculate! We  think  that  we  see  straight,  while 
we  are  far  frae  seein'  richt.  Noo  I  ken  weel  that 
if  I  had  had  the  management  o'  affairs,  I  wad  hae 
spoiled  a'  the  happiness  o'  this  day." 


OLD  STEPHEN'S  SORROW.  109 

CHAPTER    XI. 
OLD  STEPHEN'S  SORROW. 

STEPHEN  WATSON  had  scarcely  ceased  to  re- 
joice over  the  happiness  at  the  castle  ere  trouble 
came  to  his  own  little  cottage.  Hannah,  on  whom 
his  hopes  had  centred  for  nearly  fifty  years,  was 
smitten  with  an  incurable  malady.  It  was  vain 
for  Stephen  to  attempt  to  work,  and  he  went  to 
Sir  William  with  this  plea  : 

' '  Kind  maister,  you  ken,  I  suppose,  that  the 
doctor  has  said  that  my  Hannah  maun  dee.  Wull 
you  gi'e  me  leave  to  stay  by  her  an'  nurse  her  wi' 
my  ain  han's?" 

"Ay,  Stephen,  surely  you  may  stay  by  her, 
an'  if  you  hae  ony  other  request,  you  maunna  be 
slow  to  speak. ' ' 

"  You  are  vera  gude.  The  doctor  says  that  if 
she  could  hae  a  wee  drappy  o'  wine  noo  an'  then, 
it  might  set  her  up  a  bit." 

"I  wull  see  that  you  hae  the  wine,  Stephen; 
an'  richt  sorry  I  am  that  sae  little  can  be  done  for 
the  gudewife." 

"An'  she  isna  sae  auld,  either,  maister;  but 
saxty-sax  come  October.  I  loved  her  when  she 


no  ,.  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

was  but  a  slip  o'  a  girl,  an'  I  merried  her  the 
morn  that  she  was  saxteen.  You  ken,  as  weel 
as  I  do,  that  she  has  always  been  ane  o'  the  best 
o'  women,  always  sae  kind  an'  gentle,  an  sic  a 
gude  Christian  tae.  But  you  dinna  ken  what  she 
has  dune  for  me.  When  we  were  first  merried  she 
worried  because  we  had  nae  prayer.  Mony  a  time 
she  said,  'Stephen,  I  dinna  like  to  gi'e  mysel'  to 
sleep  unless  the  voice  o'  prayer  first  goes  up  to  the 
ears  o'  Him  wha  doesna  slumber. '  Weel,  when 
I  saw  hoo  the  puir  lass  fretted  because  I  didna  ca' 
upon  the  name  o'  the  Lord,  I  tried  after  the  lan- 
guage o'  prayer,  but  I  found  that  I  couldna  mak' 
it  sound  richt.  Then  Hannah  said  to  me,  '  You 
maunna  try  sae  hard.  You  maun  love  God  your 
Faither  as  he  has  bidden  you,  then  you  wull  speak 
to  him  as  your  heart  prompts  you,  an'  the  heid 
wull  hae  little  to  do  wi'  it.'  An'  sae  I  found 
it  to  be;  it  is  the  heart  that  cries  oot  after  God. 
The  heid  isna  to  be  depended  upon  in  matters  o' 
religion.  Weel,  I  maun  awa'  to  Hannah  noo,  an' 
thank  you  for  your  kindness.  I  maun  be  wi'  her 
while  I  may,  you  see." 

Stephen  walked  hurriedly  towards  his  cottage. 
If  we  could  follow  him  we  would  see  him  go  right 
to  his  wife  and  kiss  her  pale  cheek ;  we  would 
have  heard  him  ask,  "Is  the  pain  nae  better, 
Hannah?" 


OLD  STEPHEN'S  SORROW.  m 

"Nae  better,  Stephen;  but  I  hae  grace  an' 
strength  gi'en  me  to  bear  it." 

"Oh,  my  puir  wife,  my  ain  kind  dearie,  hoo 
gladly  wad  I  tak'  the  pain  upon  mysel'  an'  gi'e 
you  rest. ' ' 

"I  ken  that,  Stephen,  but  you  canna.  Each 
must  bear  his  or  her  ain  allotment  o'  sufferin'  an1 
sorrow.  The  dear  Lord  wull  see  to  it  that  nane 
o'  us  hae  tae  muckle  to  bear.  Remember  that, 
lyife  is  fu'  o'  trouble,  but  for  each  trouble  there  is 
a  solace.  The  Healer's  han'  is  outstretched  to- 
wards every  wound,  an'  surely  we  canna  complain 
o'  chastisement,  Stephen.  We  hae  had  mony, 
vera  mony  years  o'  quiet  joy  together.  They 
haena  seemed  mony,  because  we  hae  been  sae 
happy.  We  hae  grown  auld,  an'  we  haena 
thought  aboot  it;  time  has  fled  an'  we  wist  it  not. 
We  hae  needed  but  little,  an'  that  little  we  hae 
aye  had.  Sir  William  has  never  been  severe  wi' 
us,  an'  o'  late  he  has  been  mair  than  gude.  A' 
the  folk  at  the  castle  wull  be  gude  to  you,  Ste- 
phen, when  I'm  awa'.  Elspeth  an'  Marjorie,  an' 
even  Leddy  Marion  hersel'  wi'  a'  her  happiness, 
wullna  forget  to  speak  comfortin'  wards  to  a  lone- 
ly mon." 

"That  may  be  sae;  but  none  o'  them  can  speak 
wards  that  wull  be  like  yours,  Hannah." 

"Maybe,  Stephen,  maybe;  but  think  o'  the 


ii2  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

meetin'  ayont  a'  earthly  partings;  wullna  that  be 
blessed?" 

"  Ay,  that  it  wull;  but  hoo  lang  the  time  wull 
seem  till  then!  You  said  a  few  minutes  sin'  that 
the  years  had  seemed  sae  short  to  us  together,  but 
they  wullna  be  short  to  me  when  I  am  alane.  Ay, 
ay,  they  do  seem  short!  Eh!  it  seems  but  a  few 
years  sin'  I  brought  you  to  my  hame,  an'  yet  it  is 
twascore  an'  ten  years." 

Stephen  sat  musing  on  the  past,  and  Hannah 
fell  asleep.  Often  he  cast  on  her  a  glance  of  love 
and  pity.  Her  face  was  very  sweet  with  its  look 
of  repose,  and  Stephen  said,  "She  aye  had  that 
dainty  leuk  around  her  mouth.  A  bonnie  face 
she  had,  an'  sic  canty  ways  tae.  Weel,  a'  is  pass- 
ing frae  me.  God  gi'e  me  grace  to  stan'  my 
grief." 

Hannah  still  slept,  and  Stephen  quietly  made 
some  preparations  for  his  lonely  meal.  In  those 
last  days  Hannah  scarcely  tasted  food.  In  vain 
did  Stephen  say,  "Try  to  tak'  a  bit  o'  food  sae 
that  you  may  gain  strength,  just  a  wee  bit, 
dearie. ' '  But  her  appetite  was  gone,  and  the  old 
man  often  pushed  his  own  food  back  untasted. 

When  Hannah  awoke  Elspeth  was  sitting  by 
her  bedside. 

uHoo  are  you  the  day,  Hannah?"  she  in- 
quired. 


OLD  STEPHEN'S  SORROW.  113 

"  I  amna  sae  weel,  Elspeth.  I  trow  that  I  am 
vveel  on  wi'  the  seckness,  an'  the  last  maun  soon 
come. ' ' 

' '  Think  you  sae  ?  Hoo  do  you  feel  in  view 
o'  approaching  daith  ?  A'  is  weel,  I  mak'  nae 
doot." 

"A'  is  weel  an'  a'  is  richt  that  oor  Maker  or- 
ders." 

"That  sounds  like  yoursel',  Hannah.  I 
thought  that  you  wadna  hae  a  murmuring  spirit, 
though  the  pain  o'  the  body  an'  the  pain  o' 
parting  wi'  the  gudemon  maun  baith  be  hard  to 
bear." 

"It  wad  ill  become  me,  Elspeth,  to  find  fault 
wi'  the  arrangements  o'  Providence.  Sic  things 
might  be  overlooked  in  an  unbeliever,  but  in  a 
believer  never.  .Sic  a  course  wad  gi'e  the  lee  to 
oor  profession,  you  ken." 

"  Sae  it  wad.  There  is  mony  a  professing  be- 
liever that  doesna  leuk  at  it  i'  that  light,  I  'm 
thinking.  Weel,  it  is  gude  to  trust  in  the  Lord 
at  a'  times,  an'  that  withoot  wavering;  for  as  St. 
James  says,  '  He  that  wavereth  is  like  a  wave  o' 
the  sea,  driven  by  the  wind  an'  tossed.'  I  din- 
na  want  to  be  tossed  aboot.  I  like  to  feel  that 
beneath  me  an'  aroun'  me  are  the  iverlasting 
arms. ' ' 

"Ay,  Elspeth,  I  ken  the  blessedness  o'  sic  a 

Lady  Marlon's  Answer.  § 


ii4  ^  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

trust.  I  dinna  fear  daith  ony  inair  than  I  fear  to 
fa'  asleep  wi'  Stephen  keepin'  watch  over  me. 
Of  course  it  seems  strange  to  think  o'  daith  sae 
near,  but  fear  I  hae  none. ' ' 

Other  words  were  spoken  and  other  thoughts 
pertaining  to  life  and  death  were  exchanged,  and 
when  Blspeth  went  her  way  each  woman  felt  that 
she  was  stronger  through  the  interview. 

It  was  sad  to  see  Stephen's  weary,  dispirited 
look.  It  said  as  plainly  as  words,  ' '  I  canna  bear 
it."  At  last  the  end  came,  so  quietly  that  Ste- 
phen did  not  notice  the  approach  of  Death  until 
his  work  was  done.  He  spoke  of  it  thus:  "  She 
was  sleepin',  an'  she  just  slept  on,  sae  far  as  I 
could  see.  There  was  neither  movement  nor 
sound.  The  first  I  kenned  she  had  the  death  pal- 
lor an'  her  breast  had  ceased  to  heave." 

After  his  wife's  death  Stephen  became  very 
disconsolate.  He  still  lived  in  the  little  cottage, 
the  dog  being  the  only  sharer  of  his  home.  Han- 
nah's clothing  was  not  removed  from  the  pegs 
where  she  had  hung  it.  Everything  remained  as 
she  had  left  it.  Stephen  would  touch  nothing 
lest  he  should  displace  it. 

As  Hannah  had  predicted,  all  the  inmates  of 
the  castle  were  very  kind  to  Stephen,  but  he 
pined  for  the  one  who  would  return  no  more. 
Gradually  he  lost  his  health  and  his  spirits.  He 


OLD  STEPHEN'S  SORROW.  115 

moved  about  so  slowly  that  Sir  William  saw  how 
unable  he  was  to  work,  and  he  managed  to  have 
him  furnished  with  some  light  employment.  But 
even  such  slight  labor  soon  became  too  much  for 
his  failing  strength,  and  he  told  Sir  William,  by 
way  of  explanation,  "  I  think  that  I  can  do  a  bit, 
an'  when  I  try  after  it  I  find  my  strength  gane. ' ' 

Sir  William  replied,  "  Weel,  my  mon,  you 
needna  wark  ony  mair;  you  hae  done  enough  for 
a  lifetime,  an'  I  judge  that  the  estate  isua  sae 
badly  crippled  that  it  canna  gi'e  you  your  living 
frae  this  oot.  Neither  need  you  lodge  there  i' 
your  cot  alane.  You  haena  been  an  ordinary  ser- 
vant to  me,  Stephen.  You  hae  had  muckle  care 
for  my  weelfare  frae  the  first;  noo  I  maun  show 
that  maisters  can  requite  the  faithfu'ness  o'  ser- 
vants ance  in  a  while  at  least. ' ' 

"I  canna  find  wards  to  express  my  gratitude 
to  you,  sir;  but  unless  you  need  the  cot  for  a  new 
comer  I  wad  like  to  end  my  days  in  it.  As  for 
support,  I  hae  a  glide  bit  laid  by,  mair  than  I 
shall  need,  unless  I  am  seek  for  a  lang  time." 

"I  wunna  take  the  cot  frae  you,  Stephen, 
even  if  I  hae  to  build  a  new  ane.  Keep  it,  mon, 
an'  God  comfort  you  for  the  loss  that  you  hae 
had." 


n6  -I,ADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

CHAPTER   XII. 

WEE  JESSIE'S  COVE. 

MOST  of  Elspeth's  stories  were  rehearsed  dur- 
ing the  long  winter  evenings,  but  she  told  one  on 
a  warm  summer  afternoon  while  she  and  Marjorie 
were  sorting  blueberries.  Roger  was  somewhat 
indisposed,  and  he  sat  in  the  same  room  with 
them.  His  book  lay  in  the  deep  window-seat, 
but  for  once  he  was  not  studying.  He  looked  out 
upon  the  unruffled  lake  and  the  cool,  green  banks 
that  shut  it  in.  He  might  have  been  thinking  of 
the  story  of  the  Black  Linn,  for  he  said,  u  I  won- 
der if  no  story  could  be  tauld  aboot  this  bonnie 
lake?  It  leuks  sae  calm  and  still  that  ane  wad- 
na  suppose  there  could  be  anything  sad  connect- 
ed wi'  it.  Hae  you  ever  heard  one,  Elspeth?" 

Elspeth  replied,  "Ay,  I  hae  heard  mair  than 
ane.  There  is  ane  that  is  warth  the  telling,  an' 
it  may  be  that  the  ithers  arena  true." 

"Tell  us  the  ane,  for  I  dinna  feel  like  keepin'" 
at  my  books  this  afternoon. ' ' 

"You  keep  tae  steady  at  your  buiks,  an'  it 
wullna  hurt  you  to  leave  them  alane  for  ance. 
Weel,  let  me  see  aboot  the  story.  It  was  lang 


WEE  JESSIE'S  COVE.  117 

ago,  while  this  castle  was  in  building,  that  the 
heid  o'  this  house,  the  house  o'  Campbell,  brought 
a  family  to  this  spot  an'  put  them  in  an  auld  cot- 
tage that  stood  upon  the  north  side  o'  the  lake. 
The  husband  and  faither  was  the  heid  mason,  an' 
the  mither  an'  her  grown  lass,  Jeannie,  made 
ready  the  meals  for  the  warkmen.  They  had 
mair  bairns,  but  I  mind  weel  that  there  was  a  lass 
o'  ten  years  an'  a  bit  bairn,  a  lad.  As  may  be 
supposed,  the  mither  and  the  oldest  lass  were  vera 
busy  frae  morn  till  night,  and  the  wee  lad  was 
left  i'  the  charge  o'  Jessie,  the  ten-year-old  lass. 
The  twa  wad  be  oot  alane  for  hours  at  a  time.  It 
was  pleasant  simmer  weather,  and  the  mither  did- 
na  mind  sae  lang  as  they  came  in  in  time  for  their 
meals. 

"Weel,  ane  morn  they  went  oot  as  was  their 
wont,  but  they  didna  come  in  at  noon  for  their 
dinner,  and  the  mither  went  oot  and  called,  'Jes- 
sie, Jessie  !'  Alack  !  nae  Jessie  answered,  an'  the 
mither's  heart  took  fright  at  ance;  but  the  faither 
said,  'Jessie  is  but  plucking  flowers  or  is  busy 
wi'  some  pleasant  employ,  an'  she  has  forgotten 
her  dinner.'  But  when  he  had  eaten  his  ain  din- 
ner an'  the  lass  didna  come,  he  grew  a  bit  uneasy 
and  shouted  her  name  lang  an'  loud. 

"At  length  Jeannie  put  her  hand  to  her  heart 
an'  turned  pale. 


u8  -  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

"'What  ails  you,  lass?'  asked  her  faither, 
frighted;  an'  she  answered  through  her  white 
lips,  'The  lake,  the  lake!  they  may  be  in  the 
lake !' 

"  'Whist,  lass,  it  is  nae  ways  likely,  an'  you 
maunna  speak  sic  wards  to  your  mither;  she  wad 
fear  the  warst  at  ance. ' 

"  As  he  spoke  he  leuked  towards  the  lake,  an' 
there  stood  the  mither  peerin'  doon  into  the  wa- 
ter, an'  he  called,  'Come  awa',  wife;  the  bairns 
arena  likely  to  be  where  you  are  leukin'.' 

utWha  can  tell  that?'  she  answered,  wring- 
in'  her  hands.  But  they  could  see  naething  in 
the  water  then.  The  haill  afternoon  wore  awa' 
an'  nicht  set  in.  Then  the  puir  mither  wailed 
oot,  '  Maun  the  nicht  come  an'  my  bairns  arena 
found?' 

"  Weel,  after  a  bit  the  moonlicht  glinted  forth 
an'  the  search  continued  the  nicht  through.  But 
not  till  ten  o'clock  the  next  morn  did  they  find 
the  bairns.  They  lay  in  the  bit  cove  under  twa 
or  three  feet  o'  water.  You  ken  the  water  is  but 
shallow  in  that  place.  The  puir  lass  had  her  wee 
brither  tightly  clasped  in  her  arms,  as  if  she  had 
thought  o'  him  till  the  last.  Her  sweet  blue  e'en 
were  open  an'  the  bonnie  golden  hair  was  tangled 
an'  fu'  o'  the  grass  an'  weeds.  They  maun  hae 
been  standin'  too  near  the  edge  an'  slipped  in." 


WEE  JESSIE'S  COVE.  119 

Elspeth  paused  to  take  breath,  and  Roger  said, 
"I  ance  heard  Stephen  speak  o'  Wee  Jessie's 
Cove;  now  I  ken  the  reason." 

"  Ay,  that  was  the  way  the  cove  was  named," 
assented  Elspeth. 

' '  I  thought  that  it  was  named  for  some  pleas- 
ant wee  maid  wha  loved  to  sit  by  the  lake, ' '  said 
Roger. 

"  I  would  that  it  had  been  sae;  then  ane  puir 
mither  wadna  hae  died  amaist  heart-broken  an' 
early  been  laid  to  sleep  by  her  dead  bairns.  Nae- 
body  could  comfort  her;  she  wad  often  say,  '  Wae 
warth  the  day  that  we  came  to  bide  by  yon  cruel, 
deceitfu'  water !'  When  folk  tried  to  talk  to  her 
she  wad  answer,  '  Gang  your  ways  an'  leave  me 
to  my  sorrow.' 

"  'T  is  said  that  when  the  minister  tried  to  tell 
her  it  was  her  duty  to  cheer  up  she  wad  reply,  '  I 
try  to  be  submissive,  but  I  trow  that  I  can  never 
be  cheerfu'  mair.  It  is  easy  to  say  cheer  up,  but 
you  hae  a'  your  bairns  left.  You  dinna  ken  hoo 
empty  my  arms  are.' 

' '  But  when  her  last  days  came  she  amended 
an'  leuked  at  the  dispensation  o'  Providence  wi' 
clearer  e'en.  '  It  is  weel  wi'  the  bairns,'  she  wad 
say,  'an',  mairover,  I  shall  soon  gang  to  them. 
The  Lord's  hand  was  i'  the  matter,  an'  it  maun 
hae  been  for  gude.  He  aye  kens  better  than  we 


I2O  ^LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

do;  an'  the  sooner  we  come  to  believe  it  the  bet- 
ter for  oor  peace.' 

"Noo  it  isna  muckle  of  a  story  you  may 
think,  but  I  never  leuk  at  the  cove  withoot  think- 
in'  o'  the  twa  hapless  anes  wha  perished  there. 
Often  too  I  think  o'  the  puir  mither's  wards, 
'God  aye  kens  better  than  we  do;  an'  the  sooner 
we  come  to  believe  it  the  better  for  oor  peace.'  " 

"  Ay,  Elspeth,  I  think  I  ken  what  it  is  to  feel 
sae,  for  I  too  hae  passed  through  bereavements 
and  sorrow.  Like  her,  I  hope  that  I  hae  come  to 
believe  that  God  kens  best." 

"It  is  weel  that  you  can  say  that  inuckle," 
answered  Elspeth,  "  for  I  count  nae  ane's  happi- 
ness safe  till  he  can  say  that." 

Marjorie  had  not  spoken,  but  now  she  said, 
"I  think  that  I  hae  been  a  deal  happier  sin'  I 
learned  that  a  wiser  Ane  than  I  controls  a'  things 
that  concern  me,  an'  that  I  needna  tak'  muckle 
anxious  thought  sin'  God  takes  thought  for  me." 

Marjorie  said  this  with  a  simple  and  childlike 
faith,  and  neither  Elspeth  nor  Roger  doubted  that 
she  knew  whereof  she  spoke.  The  old  woman 
said,  "  Dear  heart,  I  was  aulder  than  you  by  far 
when  I  rightly  learned  sae  blessed  a  lesson ;  but, 
thanks  be  to  God,  I  learned  it  at  last." 


ROGER   LEAVES   HOME.  121 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

ROGER   LEAVES  HOME. 

MR.  AINSLIE'S  coming  had  changed  Roger's 
prospects.  The  uncle  felt  that  he  could  not  put 
a  portion  of  his  money  to  a  better  use  than  to  edu- 
cate his  nephew.  He  felt  almost  sorry  that  Roger 
had  spent  so  many  of  his  best  years  for  study  on 
the  castle  farm.  He  knew  that  Roger  was  no  or- 
dinary youth,  though  he  could  not  divine  what 
possibilities  might  be  in  him.  He  was  aware  that 
the  lad  had  a  highly  imaginative  disposition,  and 
he  was  not  particularly  pleased  that  it  was  so. 
Each  year  Roger  became  more  and  more  fond  of 
his  books,  and  as  he  had  received  very  good  ad- 
vantages while  his  father  was  living,  he  was  well 
prepared  to  enter  a  high-school  at  Edinburgh. 
Although  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  educational 
privileges,  he  could  not  turn  away  without  a  sigh 
for  all  that  had  grown  so  dear  to  him  at  the  castle. 

Marjorie,  too,  was  very  sad,  for  she  had  never 
before  been  separated  from  her  brother ;  but  the 
hope  of  seeing  him  as  wise  as  he  hoped  to  be  rec- 
onciled her  to  the  separation.  She  never  forgot 
the  few  words  that  Roger  had  dropped  about  the 


122  ^LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

book  he  hoped  to  write,  and  she  comforted  herself 
by  thinking  of  what  he  might  become,  and  she 
bravely  beat  back  her  tears.  She  reasoned  to  her- 
self, ' '  If  Roger  is  to  become  a  great  mon,  he  maun 
bestir  himsel'.  God  doesna  wark  miracles  for  folk 
wha  by  patient  continuance  in  a  richt  course  can 
come  to  the  desired  end.  We  maun  aye  use  a' 
that  we  hae  within  oursel's,  whether  it  be  little  or 
muckle.  I  thought  o'  this  the  other  day  when  I 
read  aboot  the  widow's  cruse  o'  oil.  The  prophet 
o'  the  Lord  wad  do  naething  for  her  until  he 
kenned  what  she  had  i'  her  house ;  then  he  in- 
creased that  she  had.  Sae  I  mak'  nae  doot  we 
maun  leuk  within  oursel's  an'  see  how  we  can 
help  oursel's.  I  dinna  ken  what  there  is  in  me — 
nae  muckle  o'  onything,  perhaps.  Folk  say, 
'  Marjorie  is  a  light-hearted  lass,  an'  gude  com- 
pany an'  cheerfu'-like.'  Weel,  that  isna  vera 
bad;  I  dinna  ken  but  I  wad  as  lief  cheer  people 
as  instruct  them ;  there  is  mony  a  sad  heart  that 
needs  comfortin'.  I  think  I  wad  liefer  comfort 
folk  than  do  onything  else.  I  haena  seen  sae 
muckle  sorrow  mysel',  yet  I  hae  been  orphaned 
at  an  early  age,  an'  if  I  had  been  o'  a  sad  turn  o' 
mind  I  might  hae  grieved  aboot  it  till  this  day. 
But  I  trow  that  it  wadna  please  the  dear  Lord, 
for  he  has  tauld  us  that  a'  things  wark  together 
for  gude  to  them  wha  love  God.  I  am  sure  that 


ROGER  LEAVES  HOME.         123 

I  dinna  want  to  be  amang  those  wha  love  him  not. 
Though  I  say  to  mysel'  amaist  ilka  day,  '  Marjo- 
rie  Ainslie,  you  are  naught  but  a  simple-minded 
lass,'  I  trow  that  I  am  a  happy  ane.  One  thing 
I  canna  mak'  oot;  that  is,  hoo  some  vera  wise  an' 
vera  gude  people  hae  sic  a  dread  o'  God.  I  hae 
had  nae  dread  o'  him  sin'  my  faither  died.  When 
that  great  loss  came  to  me  I  cried  unto  God,  say- 
ing, 'Dear  Heavenly  Faither,  I  hae  nae  earthly 
faither  noo.  Wilt  thou  fill  his  place  to  me  ?  Let 
me  feel  thee  near  me,  guardin'  an'  guidin'  me, 
an'  dinna  let  me  hae  ony  fear  o'  thee. ' 

"  Weel,  here  I  sit,  as  though  I  had  naething  to 
do,  niver  thinkin'  that  the  fowls  are  hungry  an' 
the  wee  birds  are  wantin'  their  crumbs." 

She  took  her  basket  and  went  about  her  self- 
imposed  task  of  feeding  all  of  the  feathered  tribe 
about  the  castle.  After  she  had  fed  the  fowls  she 
stopped  to  pat  old  Snap  as  he  lay  warming  him- 
self in  the  morning  sun,  for  she  thought  that  the 
poor  old  dog  must  miss  Roger  too. 

She  saw  Stephen  Watson  wandering  about  in 
an  aimless  manner,  for  he  was  more  lonely  than 
usual  since  Roger  had  gone.  While  he  felt  glad 
that  Roger  had  the  chance  to  become  a  scholar, 
he  also  thought  that  it  was  a  pity  that  "sic  a 
smart,  handy  lad"  should  be  taken  from  the  farm. 
He  smiled  sadly  as  he  saw  Marjorie,  and  he  said, 


124  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

"  Alack,  alack,  it  is  lanelier  than  iver  withoot 
your  brither." 

"  Ay,  it  is  lanely,  Stephen;  but  we  maun  mak' 
the  best  o'  it.  I  had  a  mind  to  greet,  mysel',  but 
I  didna.  It  is  for  his  ain  gude  that  he  went,  you 
ken." 

"  Ay,  ay,  Marjorie,  you  are  i'  the  morn  o'  your 
life,  an'  a'  leuks  bright  an'  sunny  to  you.  You 
can  comfort  yoursel'  wi'  the  thought  o'  future  use- 
fulness an'  happiness,  but  auld  Stephen's  day  is 
past.  He  has  had  the  morn,  the  midday,  ay,  an' 
the  gloamin',  an'  a'  that  he  has  left  is  to  sit  i' 
the  fast-fallin'  shades  o'  night's  darkness." 

"There  is  mair  than  that  for  you,  Stephen; 
there  is  the  everlasting  morn." 

"Ay,  ay,  I  dinna  forget  that.  I  wad  be  maist 
miserable  an'  I  didna  mind  that.  But  sic  things 
are  spiritually  discerned;  an'  you  ken  that  we  a' 
hae  times  when  we  think  sae  muckle  o'  vanished 
earthly  joys  that  oor  e'en  are  blinded  aboot  the 
joys  to  come.  But,  lassie,  the  gude  Saviour  kens 
that  tae.  He  has  felt  lanely  here,  an'  he  wunna 
lay  it  to  my  charge  that  for  whiles  I  forget  to  leuk 
awa'  to  heavenly  things.  He  has  compassion  on 
us  in  oor  blin'ness  an'  unbelief;  for  I  mind  that 
Paul  writes  to  Timothy,  '  For  if  we  believe  not, 
yet  He  abideth  faithfu' :  He  canna  deny  himselV 
But  you  should  see  hoo  gloomy  the  auld  cot  leuks 


ROGER  LEAVES  HOME.          125 

o'  evenings  an'  Hannah  awa'.  By  the  wee  round 
table  there  she  aye  sat  busy  wi'  her  wark,  an'  she 
aye  had  a  sweet,  sunny  leuk  upon  her  face.  Nae- 
body  sits  there  noo.  Your  brither  kenned  hoo  I 
miss  her,  an'  he  often  came  an'  sat  i'  her  place 
wi'  his  buik ;  noo  he  is  gane,  an'  naebody  wull 
drap  in.  I  ken  hoo  it  wull  be :  the  lang  winter 
nights  wull  come  an'  I  wull  sit  alane.  The  fire 
wull  burn  low  an'  the  candle  wull  burn  oot;  even 
the  auld  doggie  wull  stretch  himsel'  on  the  rug 
that  Hannah  made  for  him  an'  gi'e  himsel'  to 
sleep.  But  auld  Stephen  wunna  sleep  muckle;  he 
wull  think  the  haill  nicht  awa'." 

"Weel,  it  is  sad,  Stephen,  but  you  maunna 
dwell  upon  it.-  You  maunna  draw  sae  dark  a  pic- 
ture. You  arena  i'  sic  a  bad  strait  as  the  three 
Hebrew  children  were  when  in  the  fiery  furnace, 
an'  yet  they  werena  left  withoot  a  comforter.  Sae 
God  wullna  leave  you  alane  in  your  sorrow  an' 
laneliness." 

Marjorie  passed  on  into  the  castle  and  old  Ste- 
phen sauntered  on  in  the  mild  autumn  morning. 
He  was  musing  on  Marjorie's  last  reply,  and  he 
gathered  strength  from  the  thought  that  the  more 
we  need  Christ  the  nearer  he  is  to  comfort  us. 

Although  Marjorie's  time  was  her  own,  it  was 
not  spent  in  idleness.  She  did  not  dislike  the 
household  duties  that  she  had  learned  to  perform 


i26  ^LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

so  well,  and  she  often  insisted  on  helping  Elspeth 
with  a  portion  of  her  accustomed  work.  "Just  to 
keep  my  hand  in,  Elspeth,"  she  argued  once  when 
the  old  servant  objected  to  her  helping  in  the 
kitchen. 

"  Ay,  keep  your  hand  in.  Ane  o'  these  days 
you  wull  need  a'  your  skill  doon  in  a  big  hoose  I 
wot  o'." 

' '  Noo  stop,  Elspeth.  It  wull  come  gude  for 
you  that  I  keep  handy.  I  help  you  a  gude  bit 
wi'  your  wark,  an'  a'  I  ask  in  return  is  a  story 
ance  in  a  while.  An'  I  haena  had  ane  in  a  dog's 
age." 

"It  maun  be  a  very  short-lived  dog,  ane  that 
hasna  had  his  e'en  open.  Hooever,  I  wull  gi'e 
you  ane,  sin'  you  ask  it.  Mind  me  o'  my  promise 
this  evening  when  I  hae  my  knitting.  I  can  tell 
a  story  best  when  I  hear  the  click  o'  the  needles." 

That  evening,  when  Elspeth  was  seated  with 
her  knitting,  Marjorie  reminded  her  of  her  prom- 
ise. So  Elspeth  settled  herself  in  her  high-backed 
chair  and  began  the  following  story  : 

"It  was  in  the  evil  time,  called  the  'killing 
time '  (you  ken  that  I  mean  the  persecution  o' 
the  Covenanters),  that  a  young  an'  warthy  couple 
were  betrothed.  The  lad  was  called  Wattie  Fer- 
gurson,  an'  the  name  o'  the  lass  was  Maggie 
Burnes.  Wattie  was  a  farmer's  son,  an'  Maggie 


ROGER  LEAVES  HOME.          127 

was  the  daughter  o'  a  neeboring  farmer.  Baith 
had  been  brought  up  i'  the  faith  o'  Scotland,  an' 
wad,  if  need  be,  suffer  for  it.  But  they  neither 
courted  nor  coveted  the  sufferin'  ;  their  young 
lives  were  sweet  to  them  for  the  sake  o'  each 
ither.  The  story  goes  that  Maggie  was  vera  bon- 
nie,  and  I  mak'  nae  doot  she  was;  Scotland  has  an' 
aye  has  had  mony  bonnie  daughters. 

"Weel,  lang  before  the  dawn  ane  Sabbath 
morning  a  goodly,  an'  I  may  say  a  godly  com- 
pany came  frae  mony  ways  to  meet  in  a  remote 
an'  mountainous  place  for  the  worship  o'  the  tri- 
une God.  In  those  days  the  people  realized  mair 
than  they  do  noo  the  office  o'  each  person  o'  the 
Trinity;  they  kenned  an'  claimed  the  feelin'  o' 
sonship ;  they  kenned  that  they  were  brought 
nigh  the  Faither  by  the  bluid  o'  Christ,  an'  they 
kenned,  mairover,  that  the  Holy  Spirit  was  their 
Comforter  an'  the  abidin'  witness  that  they  were 
born  again  an'  had  passed  frae  daith  unto  life. 

' '  But  I  suppose,  Marjorie,  you  want  me  to 
come  to  the  story.  Weel,  the  stars  blinked 
brightly  on  Maggie  an'  Wattie  that  mornin'  as 
they  locked  airms  an'  started  to  meet  the  ithers 
at  the  place  appointed  for  worship.  They  were 
happy  in  spite  o'  the  trouble  o'  the  times,  for  a 
young  pair  canna  constantly  feel  the  weight  o' 
trouble  when  their  hearts  are  bein'  made  light  wi' 


128  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

the  company  o'  each  ither.  Sae  Magge  leuked  up 
into  Wattle's  face  wi'  a  glow  o'  pleasure  that  the 
early  morn  couldna  hide,  an'  the  youth  gazed  into 
Maggie's  face  weel  pleased  wi'  the  maid's  confi- 
dence an'  love. 

"  'I  think  we  shall  hae  a  pleasant  day;  an' 
sin'  I  hae  the  company  o'  my  wee  sweetheart,  I 
think  I  shall  derive  baith  pleasure  an'  profit,' 
said  Wattie. 

"  '  Ay,  dootless  we  baith  wull,  but  we  maunna 
let  the  pleasure  o'  the  lang  walk  together  break 
in  upon  the  meditations  we  should  hae  in  goin' 
to  a  place  o'  worship,  an'  especially  a  meetin'  o' 
this  kind,  which,  you  ken,  isna  withoot  peril.' 

"'You  are  richt  there,  Maggie;  bluid  has 
been  spilled  at  sic  meetin's,  an'  there  is  nae  tellin' 
when  it  may  happen  again.' 

"  '  Let  us  houp  that  it  wunna  be  the  day,'  said 
Maggie. 

"Ay,  let  us  houp  that  no  wizen -faced  spy 
wull  get  on  oor  tracks  an'  sae  bring  us  face  to  face 
wi'  danger  an'  daith.  But  dinna  think  o'  sic 
grave  things  the  morn.  I  trow  that  either  o'  us 
wad  stan'  at  oor  post,  whatever  that  may  be.  Noo 
let  us  gi'e  oorsel's  up  to  pleasant  thoughts,  for 
we  maun  soon  join  the  ithers  an'  gang  i'  com- 
pany.' 

"Weel,  nae  doot  mony  pleasant  an'  loving 


ROGER  LEAVES  HOME.         129 

wards  were  spoken.  At  ony  rate,  they  were  un- 
forgotten  wards;  not  ane  o'  them  passed  frae  the 
memory  o'  Maggie  Burnes  while  she  remembered 
aught 

' '  They  were  nearin'  the  place  o'  worship  when 
Wattie  was  requested  to  stan'  as  watchman  in  the 
passage  to  the  glen,  where  were  already  gathered 
mony  worshippers.  Maggie  felt  a  great  fear  come 
over  her  as  Wattie  answered,  '  I  wull  gang. '  Wat- 
tie  maun  hae  kenned  it,  for  he  paused  to  say, 
'  Courage,  my  dear  Maggie ;  it  is  but  richt  that  I 
should  tak'  my  turn  as  watchman.  I  houp  that 
it  wunna  be  my  duty  to  sound  the  note  o'  alarm, 
but  if  I  maun,  I  wunna  gi'e  an  uncertain  sound, 
neither  wull  I  flee  frae  duty.  God  be  wi'  you, 
love.' 

' '  Puir  Maggie  got  but  little  gude  frae  the 
meetin' ;  she  didna  feel  to  think  aboot  the  wor- 
ship, puir  lass,  an'  her  voice  shook  sairly  as  she 
joined  wi'  the  great  congregation  and  sang: 

"'O  Lord,  my  God,  in  thee  do  I  my  confidence  repose ; 
Save  and  deliver  me  from  all  my  persecuting  foes, 
Lest  that  the  enemy  my  soul  should  like  a  lion  tear, 
In  pieces  rending  it  while  there  is  no  deliverer.' 

"The  psalm  was  scarcely  ended  when  the 
warnin'  note  came  frae  the  direction  that  Wattie 
had  taken.  Maggie's  face  turned  deadly  pale, 
an'  a  moment  later  the  report  of  a  gun  was  heard. 


130  ^  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

The  worshippers  took  up  airms,  formed  into  line, 
an'  stood  upon  the  defensive.  A  few  horsemen  rode 
in  through  the  pass,  discharged  some  shots,  saw 
the  strength  o'  the  Covenanters,  then  they  wheeled 
round  and  went  the  way  they  came.  A'  was 
confusion  for  a  while,  an'  naebody  kenned  that 
puir  Maggie  was  missing  until  a  body  o'  men 
went  to  find  Wattie.  He  was  dead,  an'  Maggie 
lay  near  him,  swooned  clearawa'.  They  brought 
the  puir  lass  back  to  hersel',  but  she  fainted  again 
an'  again.  After  a  while  a  friend  o'  Wattie's  got 
a  horse  an'  took  the  puir  forfairn  lass  before  him, 
an'  some  ither  lads  bound  Wattie's  body  to  a 
board  an'  carried  him  sae.  They  went  back  over 
the  same  road  that  the  twa  had  travelled  i'  the 
morn,  baith  sae  fu'  o'  life  an'  houp. 

"They  said  that  Wattie  wasna  quite  dead 
when  Maggie  found  him,  an'  he  tauld  her  na  to 
greet  for  him;  that  they  should  meet  again  where 
trouble  couldna  come.  Maggie  wadna  say  muckle 
aboot  it,  for  she  felt  that  her  grief  maunna  be 
meddled  wi' ;  but  she  didna  fail  to  do  her  duty 
in  the  warld  as  lang  as  she  lived  in  it. 

"  Noo,  Marjorie,  you  may  think  that  my  story 
is  owre  sober,  but  it  is  weel  to  ken  somat  o'  the 
trials  endured  by  oor  countrymen  to  buy  the 
privileges  that  we  enjoy." 


MOTHERHOOD.  131 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

MOTHERHOOD. 

A  YEAR  slipped  by,  and  when  Roger  returned 
to  school  Marjorie  was  not  only  accustomed  to 
his  absence,  but  there  was  something  to  divert 
her  mind.  A  new  life  had  awakened  at  the  castle; 
Mrs.  Ainslie  was  a  mother.  In  the  quaint  old 
family  cradle  in  which  Marion  herself  had  been 
rocked  slept  her  little  son.  Lovely  and  lovable 
as  Marion  had  ever  been,  new  graces  came  with 
the  new  responsibilities.  Her  gentleness  carried 
her  father  back  to  the  time  when  she  herself  was 
an  infant  and  her  sweet  young  mother,  his  own 
Isabel,  hung  over  her  with  tender  solicitude. 
And  yet  she  was  not  altogether  like  her  mother, 
for  though  gentle,  she  had  become  so  through 
discipline.  The  mother  had  possessed  more  natu- 
ral sweetness  than  Marion;  Marion  the  stronger 
will.  Both  were  just  to  others,  though  the  daugh- 
ter was  far  quicker  than  the  mother  to  claim  jus- 
tice for  herself.  The  one  would  yield  any  point 
not  including  a  moral  wrong,  and  forgive,  though 
her  heart  was  breaking.  The  other  could  forgive 
too,  but  would  not  cheerfully  submit  to  any 


132  ^LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

measures  that  interfered  with  her  own  plans.  Els- 
peth  read  their  characters  correctly  when  she  said, 
"There  is  this  difference  atween  Leddy  Marion  an' 
Leddy  Isabel.  Leddy  Isabel  thought  last  an'  least 
o'  hersel',  an'  wad  give  a  kiss  for  a  blow;  but 
Leddy  Marion  claims  her  own  right,  an'  though 
she  wull  bear  a  blow  without  complaint,  she  has- 
na  a  kiss  to  give  iii  return."  And  not  till  her 
lady  became 'a  mother  did  Elspeth  say,  "My 
leddy  is  mair  like  her  mither  than  her  faither 
after  a'." 

The  birth  of  a  male  child  was  a  cause  of  great 
joy  to  all  the  family.  Sir  William  was  delighted 
and  at  once  asked  to  name  him  Kenneth  Camp- 
bell, giving  this  as  a  reason  for  the  request:  "  Ken- 
neth was  the  name  o'  my  grand  faither  and  the  last 
one  o'  the  family  wha  was  prospered.  It  may  be 
that  the  prosperity  o'  the  hoose  o'  Campbell  wull 
come  back  wi'  the  revival  o'  the  name."  • 

Elspeth  was  a  proud  woman  as  she  cared  for 
the  strong,  healthy  infant.  She  often  communed 
with  herself  on  the  probabilities  of  the  future, 
and  always  came  around  to  this  one  t1  ought, 
"This hoose  isna  to  hae  Ichabod  written  upon  it 
yet" 

The  father  and  mother  were  not  altogether  in 
sympathy  with  these  older  people.  To  them  the 
child  was  a  blessing  from  the  Lord,  given  not  to 


MOTHERHOOD.  133 

build  up  an  earthly  and  a  decaying  inheritance, 
but  to  become  an  heir  to  an  inheritance  ' '  incor- 
ruptible, undefiled,  and  that  fadeth  not  away." 
However,  in  compliance  with  Sir  William's  wish- 
es the  child  was  named  Kenneth  Campbell. 

Marjorie  Ainslie  loved  the  little  Kenneth  with 
all  the  warmth  of  her  affectionate  nature.  Lady 
Marion  often  said  to  herself,  ' '  Was  ever  a  bairn 
mair  welcome?"  Then  thinking  of  Him  who 
was  cradled  in  a  manger,  she  went  on,  "Ay, 
there  has  been  one  at  least,  the  Christ-child,  born 
sae  mony  hundred  years  ago.  For  though  re- 
jected by  mony,  some  believed  on  him  an'  re- 
joiced wi'  exceeding  joy." 

There  were  two  others  who  rejoiced  over  the 
birth  of  Lady  Marion's  son.  One  was  of  high 
and  the  other  of  low  degree.  Lady  Annie  sent 
her  congratulations,  and  a  promise  of  coming  soon 
to  see  her  "dear  wee  kinsman."  Old  Stephen 
Watson  also  manifested  his  interest.  He  tottered 
in,  laid  his  hand  on  the  head  of  the  infant,  and 
looked  up  as  if  invoking  a  blessing  upon  him. 
Turning  slowly  away,  he  said,  ' '  It  wunna  hurt 
the  bairn  to  hae  the  blessing  o'  an  auld  mon, 
ane  wha  has  measured  oot  the  fu'  span  o'  life  an' 
leukin'  back  kens  that  the  greatest  gude  to  crave 
is  peace  wi'  God  through  oor  Lord  Jesus  Christ." 

The  little  Kenneth  was  soon  in  a  fair  way  to 


134  ^  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

be  spoiled  between  Elspeth  and  Marjorie,  not  to 
say  anything  of  the  attentions  of  those  nearer  to 
him.  The  minute  he  began  to  cry  he  was  Els- 
peth's  "puir  wee  mon"  or  Marjorie's  "dear  wee 
cousin,"  and  one  or  the  other  of  his  admirers 
wanted  him  in  her  arms  all  the  time. 

These  were  happy  days  for  all.  Mr.  Ainslie 
and  his  wife  felt  that  the  long,  dark  period  of  their 
lives  was  completely  bridged  over  by  their  present 
felicity,  and  they  only  remembered  the  affliction 
in  order  to  notice  how  they  had  profited  by  it. 

Marjorie  felt  that  there  would  be  no  more  dark 
days  in  Cragsby  Castle.  She  had  a  homelike 
feeling  and  she  was  beloved  by  all  the  family. 
To  Lady  Marion  she  was  as  a  younger  sister. 
Besides,  she  had  made  a  warm  friend  in  Edith 
Grant.  When  Edith  was  at  the  castle  the  two 
girls  were  constantly  together,  and  when  Edith 
was  gone  Marjorie  looked  forward  to  her  let- 
ters. 

One  day  a  letter  came  which  contained  an  in- 
vitation to  Marjorie  to  come  to  Perth  and  pay 
Edith  a  visit.  Marjorie  was  delighted,  and  as  no 
one  had  any  serious  objections,  it  was  settled  that 
she  should  go. 

But  there  was  one  person  outside  of  the  family 
who  did  object.  Graham  Walker  dreaded  to  have 
Marjorie  go  from  home  to  form  new  acquaintan- 


MOTHERHOOD.  135 

ces  and  to  mingle  in  gay  society  before  he  had 
any  conversation  with  her  relative  to  his  own 
hopes.  So,  as  the  time  for  her  departure  drew 
near,  he  went  to  the  castle  to  see  her.  She  was 
walking  by  herself  through  the  castle  grounds, 
and  Graham  rejoiced  at  the  favorable  opportunity 
that  presented  itself.  After  the  usual  greetings 
they  seated  themselves  upon  a  bench  under  the 
shadow  of  the  trees. 

"I  hear  that  you  are  goin'  from  hame  for  a 
lang  visit,  an'  I  had  a  wish  to  talk  to  you  aboot  a 
subject  that  lies  near  my  heart.  It  maun  be,  Mar- 
jorie,  that  I  hae  given  you  to  understand  by  ward 
or  leuk,  or  baith,  that  I  hae  mair  than  a  common 
interest  i'  you.  Noo  tell  me  if  I  haena." 

"I  hae  thought  sae  sometimes,  Graham,  but 
I  haena  thought  muckle  aboot  it,  for  this  reason: 
I  love  God  best,  an'  I  wadua  dare  settle  my  affec- 
tions upon  ane  wha  doesna  love  him.  Noo,  I  ken 
that  you  arena  an  unbeliever  i'  the  broad  sense 
o'  the  ward,  but  there  is  anither  an'  a  closer  mean- 
ing into  which  it  wull  be  weel  to  leuk.  If  ane 
doesna  believe  in  Christ  as  his  ain  personal  Sa- 
viour he  hasna  savin'  faith  an'  isna  a  true  believer. 
If  ane  hasna  taken  Christ  as  his  portion  it  canna 
be  tauld  if  he  ever  wull.  Ane  may  gang  on  to 
the  end  o'  his  life,  his  heart  an'  mind  set  on  the 
pleasures  o'  this  warld  as  if  they  wad  niver  end, 


136  ^  LADY   MARION'S    ANSWER. 

an'  niver  hae  portion  or  spiritual  communion  wi' 
God's  children." 

"  I  see,  you  wad  ken  where  I  stand." 

' '  Ay,  if  you  seek  to  be  a  freend  to  me  I  wad 
ken  if  we  are  to  agree  touching  the  great  question 
o'  life,  which  I  hold  to  be,  Are  we  servants  o' 
Christ  or  nae?  an'  not  hoo  large  a  fortune  we  can 
make. '  - 

"  I  haena  been  taught  to  leuk  on  life  in  sic  a 
serious  way,  but  I  hae  a  regard  for  God's  house 
an'  I  am  seldom  absent  frae  it.  An'  yet,  Mar- 
jorie,  to  speak  the  truth,  I  wad  be  amaist  afeared 
to  sift  my  motives  lest  I  should  find  that  I  hae  a 
stronger  desire  to  see  your  face  than  to  meet  Him 
who  is  in  his  temple." 

"That  is  a  wrang  reason  for  bein'  in  God's 
house,  Graham,  an'  I  canna  tell  you  hoo  muckle 
you  miss  if  you  dinna  hae  a  hamelike  feelin'  as 
soon  as  you  cross  the  threshold  o'  the  kirk.  It  is 
there,  you  ken,  that  the  great  and  gude  Faither 
has  promised  to  meet  his  children." 

"I  didna  ken  that  you  could  be  sae  grave. 
Ane  wad  think  that  you  were  a  merry  lass,  you 
hae  sic  a  cheerfu'  face." 

UI  hope  that  I  wull  aye  hae  a  cheerfu'  face. 
If  ony  ane  has  a  right  to  be  cheerfu'  it  is  ane  wha 
kens  that  he  has  a  freend  in  Jesus.  I  am  young, 
but  na  sae  young  that  mony  haena  died  younger; 


MOTHERHOOD.  137 

sae  it  is  weel  for  me  to  mak'  my  callin'  an'  elec- 
tion sure." 

"  Hoo  can  ane  mak'  his  election  sure?" 

"By  warkin'  together  wi'  God." 

' '  Are  we  na  elect  accordin'  to  the  foreknowl- 
edge o'  God?" 

"Ay,  but  it  is  through  sanctification  o'  the 
Spirit  an'  belief  in  the  truth." 

"  Weel,  Marjorie,  I  see  that  you  hae  mair  true 
wisdom  than  I  hae;  but  I  didna  think  to  hae  sic 
a  conversation  wi'  you,  neither  did  I  tak'  you  to 
be  sic  a  serious  lass.  Still  I  hae  nae  objection  to 
ony  degree  o'  Christian  devotion  sae  lang  as  ane 
is  as  pleasant  an'  cheerfu'  as  you  are.  Sae  why 
need  there  be  ony  question  between  us?  Give 
me  a  bit  ground  for  hope  before  you  gang  awa'." 

' '  You  didna  quite  tak'  my  meaning,  it  seems, 
Graham.  The  apostle  says,  '  Hoo  can  twa  walk 
together  except  they  be  agreed  ?'  Not  that  I  think 
I  am  better  than  you  are,  but  it  is  necessary  that 
we  should  baith  enter  upon  the  same  path." 

"Weel,  Marjorie,  I  amna  sic  as  you  wad  like 
me  to  be;  I  wunna  deceive  you;  but  I  long  to  walk 
life's  path  wi'  you,  an'  you  can  lead  me  where 
you  will." 

"I  maunna  lead  you;  the  Holy  Spirit  maun 
lead  you.  His  is  the  only  safe  leading." 

1 '  A'  that  you  say  is  vera  gude.     I  canna  find 


138  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

ony  fault  wi'  it,  yet  I  amna  satisfied.  I  want  a 
promise,  Marjorie.  If  you  should  love  another  it 
wad  ainaist  be  the  death  o'  me.  Hoo  can  I  tell 
but  you  wull  leave  your  heart  where  you  are 
going  ?' ' 

' '  Hoo  can  you  tell  that  my  heart  wull  gang 
to  Perth  at  a'  ?  Hoo  can  you  tell  that  it  wullna 
remain  in  the  neeborhood  o'  Cragsby  Castle  ?' ' 

"  Dinna  trifle  wi'  me,  Marjorie." 

"I  amna  trifling,  Graham.  I  could  love  you 
weel  an'  I  knew  that  you  were  seekin'  to  follow 
in  the  footsteps  o'  oor  divine  Maister,  not  to 
please  me,  but  because  you  belong  to  him,  being 
purchased  by  his  bluid." 

Marjorie  had  grown  very  serious  again,  and 
the  teardrops  glistened  in  her  eyes.  Graham 
thought  that  she  was  very  beautiful,  but  he  knew 
not  which  he  most  admired,  the  lovely  face  or  the 
firm  principle  that  led  her  to  obey  God  rather  than 
the  promptings  of  her  own  heart.  He  took  her 
hand  and  carried  it  to  his  lips,  and  said,  "  I  think 
more  of  you  than  ever  before.  May  the  Master 
you  serve  so  conscientiously  call  me  also  into  his 
service,  that  oor  work  an'  worship  be  the  same." 

"Give  mair  earnest  heed  to  his  claims  upon 
you  an'  you  wull  soon  hear  the  call.  Then  close 
in  wi'  the  offers  o'  mercy  an'  you  wull  be  far  hap- 
pier. Folk  think  me  light-hearted.  I  wad  be 


MOTHERHOOD.  139 

heavy-hearted  if  I  couldna  feel  my  Heavenly  Fai- 
ther's  smile  resting  upon  me.  I  hope  I  haena 
caused  you  muckle  sorrow  because  I  hae  spoken 
sae  plainly,  but  I  couldna  say  less. ' ' 

"I  see  the  reason  in  what  you  say,  an'  I  am 
content  sin'  you  wad  like  to  think  weel  o'  me. 
Pray  for  me,  Marjorie,  that  I  mayua  stand  langer 
ootside  o'  the  kingdom  o'  grace. ' ' 

Graham  walked  slowly  homeward,  disposed  to 
think  well  of  what  he  had  heard.  He  said  aloud, 
u  It  maun  be  true;,  if  religion  is  ony thing  it  is  the 
needfu'  thing,  and  I  maunna  put  it  off." 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  hae  come  to  that  conclu- 
sion," said  a  voice  close  behind  him,  and  looking 
round  he  saw  the  young  parish  minister.  The 
two  young  men  shook  hands  and  walked  together 
as  long  as  their  ways  lay  in  the  same  direction. 
And  from  that  hour  they  were  friends. 

Marjorie  went  at  once  to  Mrs.  Ainslie  and  told 
her  the  whole  story. 

"  Dear  lass,"  said  Mrs.  Ainslie,  "  I  didna  think 
that  you  had  sae  muckle  consideration.  I  kenned 
weel  that  you  were  a  Christian,  but  not  all  Chris- 
tians consider  whether  God  is  pleased  wi'  their 
choice.  God  bless  you  in  your  faithfulness  to 
him." 

"Why,  Aunt  Marion,  do  folk,  pious  folk,  wed 
without  mindin'  the  apostle's  injunction?  I  think 


140  .  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

that  a'  wha  hae  taken  the  vows  o'  the  kirk  upon 
them  should  see  that  they  dinna  choose  a  life 
companion  wha  wadna  help  them  on  in  the  Chris- 
tian life."  . 

' '  I  wish  that  it  were  sae,  dear, ' '  answered 
Mrs.  Ainslie,  kissing  the  sweet,  open  face.  Then 
she  thought  long  on  the  years  of  her  own  trouble, 
and  she  breathed  a  prayer  that  if  it  should  please 
God  no  such  trouble  should  come  to  Marjorie. 


MARJORIE.  141 

CHAPTER   XV. 

MARJORIE. 

MARJORIE  travelled  to  Perth  in  company  with 
a  fellow-townsman.  When  she  reached  her  jour- 
ney's end  she  was  met  by  Edith  Grant  and  her 
father.  Mr.  Grant's  greeting  was  very  cordial 
and  Edith  was  delighted  to  see  her.  When  they 
arrived  at  the  house  Mrs.  Grant  met  Marjorie  in 
the  door  and  made  her  feel  at  home  at  once.  Mar- 
jorie enjoyed  herself  very  much  until  Edith's  tall, 
dark-eyed  brother  came  home. 

He  was  unlike  the  fair  Edith  in  disposition  as 
well  as  in  his  looks.  The  young  man  seemed  to 
have  formed  the  idea  that  he  was  born  to  rule. 
Marjorie  had  been  under  the  same  roof  but  a  few 
days  before  she  understood  that  the  deference 
shown  him  by  the  family  was  not  given  because 
he  deserved  it,  but  because  he  demanded  it.  She 
saw  also  that  the  happiness  of  the  family  was  in 
a  measure  subject  to  his  caprice. 

Marjorie  tried  to  shun  his  society  as  much  as 
possible  without  seeming  rude.  Archie  saw  that 
she  did  not  desire  his  company,  and  this  was  rea- 
son enough  for  him  to  try  to  make  it  necessary  to 


142  "  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

her.  He  was  not  accustomed  to  be  overlooked, 
and  Marjorie's  straightforward,  independent  man- 
ner and  her  lack  of  appreciation  of  him  angered 
him.  But  he  tried  to  conceal  this  and  became 
attentive  even  to  obtrusiveness. 

He  explained  to  Edith,  "  I  do  not  care  so  much 
for  the  bright  little  country  lass,  but  I  will  not 
allow  her  to  show  such  disregard  of  me." 

"  I  do  not  think  that  her  manner  towards  you 
comes  from  disregard.  It  may  be  chargeable  to 
the  very  modest  estimate  that  she  has  of  herself. 
She  probably  thinks  that  her  society  is  not  inter- 
esting and  she  takes  care  not  to  force  it  upon 
you." 

"  Nonsense.     I  know  she  dislikes  me." 

"Well,  if  she  dislikes  you  you  cannot  change 
her  ideas  as  easily  as  you  think.  She  has  a  mind 
of  her  own,  and  a  very  good  one  too.  You  just 
now  admitted  that  you  do 'not  care  for  her;  she 
has  much  discernment  and  will  understand  your 
motives.  You  want  only  to  gratify  your  vanity, 
Archie,  and  the  whole  plan  is  not  right.  She  is 
a  dear,  good  lass,  and  I  have  not  invited  her  here 
to  give  her  any  unhappiness.  I  wish  you  to  be 
civil  to  her  and  no  more. ' ' 

"I  want  no  advice  from  you,  Edith,"  an- 
swered her  brother  as  he  left  the  room. 

As  Archie  Graham  saw  Marjorie  day  after  day 


MARJORIE.  143 

he  really  began  to  admire  her.  But  she  did  not 
change  her  opinion  of  the  young  man,  and  her 
visit  bade  fair  to  be  an  unpleasant  one.  She 
wrote  to  Mrs.  Ainslie  asking  her  to  send  for  her 
sooner  than  had  been  arranged  when  she  left  home. 

Meantime  Graham  Walker  was  undergoing  a 
new  experience.  His  grandfather  was  taken  very 
ill,  and  it  soon  became  evident  that  his  days  were 
numbered.  The  sick  man  was  uneasy  and  anx- 
ious and  could  not  endure  to  have  Graham  leave 
him.  This  confinement  was  quite  a  task  for  the 
young  man,  for  never  before  had  he  been  shut  in 
a  sickroom  from  light  and  sunshine. 

"  I  tell  you,  lad,  it  is  a  fearfu'  thing  to  dee," 
said  Felix  one  day.  "Hae  you  naething  to  say 
to  your  auld  deein'  grandfaither  ?  Hae  you  na 
a  ward  o'  comfort,  you  wha  are  sae  fu'  o'  life  an' 
hope,  an'  mine  clean  gone  ?  I  tell  you  I  am  amaist 
dead  wi'  fear  alane,  withoot  the  pain  that  amaist 
rives  my  bones  an'  flesh  asunder.  Eh  !  it  is  wae- 
some,  it  is  waesome." 

"  I  wull  gang  for  the  minister,  grandfaither. 
He  is  a  pleasant,  friendly  gentleman,  an'  wull 
doubtless  tell  you  something  that  wull  comfort 
you." 

"He  wull  tell  me  that  I  haena  been  to  the 
kirk  sin'  five  years  this  spring,  an'  it  is  the  truth 
an'  no  lee.  Better  for  me  if  it  were  a  lee." 


144          -  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

"  He  wullna  tell  you  that;  he  wull  tell  you  to 
leuk  awa'  to  the  Saviour  o'  sinners,  sin'  you  feel 
that  you  are  ane. ' ' 

"What  gude  wull  that  do?  That  time  that 
He  himsel'  spake  o'  has  come.  I  amna  a  fule  i' 
the  Scriptures;  better  for  me  if  I  were;  an'  I 
mind  what  He  said,  ward  for  ward.  Listen  to 
them : 

"  'But  ye  hae  set  at  naught  a'  my  counsel, 
an'  would  none  o'  my  reproof;  I  also  wull  laugh 
at  your  calamity;  I  wull  mock  when  your  fear 
cometh,  when  your  fear  cometh  as  desolation,  an' 
your  destruction  cometh  as  a  whirlwind,  when 
distress  an'  anguish  cometh  upon  you. ' 

' '  Hae  I  na  come  to  that  time  noo  ?' ' 

UO  grandfaither,  it  is  dreadfu',  as  you  say; 
but  let  me  gang  for  the  minister ;  he  wull  pray 
wi'  you." 

"  Nae,  I  wunna  stay  alane  when  you  are  gone. 
Send  ane  o'  the  servants.  I  suppose  the  wark  is 
bein'  badly  dune,  an'  auld  Felix  an'  his  posses- 
sions wull  gang  to  the  deil  thegither.  Weel,  it 
is  a'  over  noo.  Nae,  it  isna ;  there  is  somat  to 
come  after,  an'  I  wush  there  wasna.  That  place, 
that  dreadfu'  place,  '  where  their  worm  dieth  not. ' 
Graham,  lad,  hoo  is  it  ?  I  am  that  feared  that  I 
canna  think.  Ah,  me,  that  I  had  been  wise,  that 
I  had  considered  my  latter  end  !  Graham,  you 


MARJORIE.  145 

maunna  put  off  repentance.  I  haena  preached  to 
you  before,  but  I  preach  to  you  noo  upon  the  con- 
fines o'  hell,  I  fear ;  an'  I  say  wi'  a'  the  earnest- 
ness o'  a  doomed  soul,  mak'  your  peace  wi'  God. ' ' 

The  minister's  words  and  prayers  brought  but 
little  relief  to  Felix,  and  the  last  words  that  he 
said  to  him  were,  ' '  There  isna  muckle  hope  for 
me,  but  hae  a  care  over  the  lad.  Dinna  let  him 
do  as  I  hae  dune." 

The  old  man  died  after  a  few  days'  illness, 
and  Graham  was  left  alone.  He  felt  sad  and  dis- 
pirited ;  he  never  could  be  the  same.  He  often 
thought  of  Marjorie,  of  her  trust  and  her  happi- 
ness. His  pastor  was  faithful  to  him,  for  he  was 
not  only  bound  by  the  usual  obligation  to  watch 
for  souls,  but  he  could  not  forget  the  dying  in- 
junction of  the  unhappy  grandfather. 

As  soon  as  Mrs.  Ainslie  received  Marjorie' s 
letter  she  sent  for  her  to  return  home.  She  had 
missed  the  girl  every  day  and  was  glad  that  she 
was  to  be  among  them  again.  The  Grant  family 
wondered  why  Mrs.  Ainslie  had  changed  her  plans 
and  shortened  Marjorie' s  stay,  but  none  except 
Edith  knew  the  cause,  and  she  kept  her  own 
counsel. 

Archie  Grant  was  disappointed  and  he  tried 
more  than  ever  to  make  a  good  impression.  He 
even  avowed  his  attachment  to  Marjorie,  but  she 

Lady  Marlon's  Answer.  IO 


146         ^   LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

treated  the  matter  very  lightly,  as  she  thought 
that  Archie's  affections  were  not  very  deeply  in- 
volved. 

Marjorie  received  a  joyful  welcome  from  the 
friends  at  home.  All  told  her  how  they  had 
missed  her,  and  Sir  William  added,  "  Weel,  las- 
sie, I  didiia  ken  hoo  muckle  store  we  set  by  you." 

Marjorie  was  very  sorry  for  Graham  when  she 
knew  what  he  had  suffered,  and  when  she  saw 
him  she  was  surprised  to  see  how  changed  he 
seemed,  for  he  looked  as  if  he  had  been  sick  him- 
self. He  was  nearly  ill  between  grief  for  his 
grandfather's  unhappy  end  and  concern  about  his 
own  soul.  Yet  she  liked  the  truthful,  earnest 
look  that  he  wore,  and  she  felt  that  he  was  no 
deceiver.  They  had  a  long  talk  about  religion, 
but  nothing  was  said  at  that  time  in  regard  to 
their  earthly  friendship.  His  anxiety  about  spir- 
itual things  was  greater  than  his  care  for  his  earth- 
ly happiness.  When,  a  few  months  later,  he  par- 
took of  the  Lord's  Supper,  Marjorie  felt  satisfied 
that  his  conversion  was  genuine. 

The  year  slipped  by  and  Roger  was  soon  ex- 
pected home.  Edith  Grant  had  promised  to  visit 
Marjorie,  and  she  hinted  that  Archie  wished  to 
accompany  her.  This  last  news  was  anything 
but  agreeable  to  Marjorie,  so  she  was  not  sorry 
that  about  that  time  Graham  renewed  his  atten- 


MOONLIGHT  ON  THE  LAKE.        Page  147. 


MARJORIE.  147 

tions.  There  was  now  no  fear  in  her  mind  that 
they  would  not  agree  in  matters  of  religion,  and 
the  promise  was  soon  given  that  made  Graham 
a  happy  man. 

Marjorie  wrote  to  Edith,  inclosing  an  invita- 
tion to  her  brother,  but  in  another  part  of  the  let- 
ter she  announced  her  engagement  to  Graham, 
and  the  consequence  was  that  Archie  did  not  go 
to  the  castle  at  all.  Although  no  one  said  so,  all 
felt  relieved  that  he  did  not  come,  nor  was  Edith 
less  pleased  than  the  others.  The  four  young  peo- 
ple passed  a  very  pleasant  summer.  Marjorie  and 
Graham  were  as  happy  as  they  could  well  be,  and 
the  moonlight  sails  upon  the  lake  were  very  con- 
ducive to  the  growth  of  friendship  between  Edith 
and  Roger. 

Graham  insisted  upon  a  speedy  marriage,  and 
Marjorie  was  nothing  loath,  as  she  knew  how  to 
stand  at  the  head  of  household  affairs.  So  one  of 
the  last  days  of  Roger's  vacation  was  fixed  for  his 
sister's  wedding-day.  Sir  William  wished  her  to 
have  a  wedding  not  unlike  his  daughter's,  but  this 
was  not  in  accordance  with  Marjorie' s  ideas;  still 
she  did  not  wish  to  oppose  the  wishes  of  one  to 
whom  she  owed  so  much. 

Before  the  preparations  were  begun  something 
occurred  to  cast  a  shadow  over  the  family  at  the 
castle :  old  Stephen  Watson  yielded  up  his  spirit 


148          *  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

after  a  few  days'  sickness.  Roger  was  his  faith- 
ful attendant,  and  he  felt  more  than  repaid  for  all 
the  time  and  labor  he  bestowed  upon  the  lonely 
man.  After  Stephen  was  laid  in  the  kirkyard  by 
Hannah,  nothing  remained  to  be  done  but  to  de- 
liver up  his  effects  to  his  kindred  and  to  coax  the 
poor  howling  dog  to  the  castle.  Then  silence  fell 
in  and  around  old  Stephen's  cottage. 

It  was  nothing  nearer  than  the  death  of  a  ser- 
vant, but  the  event  led  Sir  William  to  remember 
that  the  longest  life  must  end.  He  was  very  grave 
in  those  days,  and  he  bade  Marjorie  do  as  she  liked 
about  the  wedding.  She  preferred  to  have  a  quiet 
wedding  with  a  few  friends  present. 

So  she  had  her  way.  They  were  married  as 
soon  as  the  candles  were  lighted.  After  a  pleas- 
ant evening  one  of  Graham's  servants  came  with 
the  carriage  to  convey  the  master  and  his  wife 
home. 

As  the  bridal  pair  rode  away  there  were  the 
usual  comments  that  attend  an  event  of  the  kind. 

"  I  hope  she  wull  be  happy  in  her  new  hame," 
said  Sir  William;  "an'  I  think  she  wull,  for  hap- 
piness is  something  that  she  aye  carries  wi'  her." 


SORROW  AT  THE  CASTLE.  149 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

SORROW  AT  THE  CASTLE. 

LITTLE  Kenneth  Ainslie  was  about  two  years 
old  when  Mrs.  Ainslie  gave  birth  to  a  daughter. 
Elspeth  at  once  pronounced  it  a  "winsome  wee 
thing,"  and  all  who  saw  the  child  agreed  with 
her. 

Sir  William  said,  ' '  I  named  the  laddie,  and  I 
wad  like  weel  to  name  this  wee  lass  also. ' ' 

Mrs.  Ainslie  smiled  and  asked  her  father  to 
speak  the  name,  for  she  was  quite  sure  that  it  was 
the  name  she  herself  had  chosen. 

Sir  William  hesitated  but  a  moment,  then 
said,  ' '  Ca'  her  Isabel ;  it  wull  please  me  to  hear 
the  name  again." 

"It  wull  please  me  too,  faither,  an'  I  think 
no  one  wull  object." 

So  the  infant  was  named  Isabel,  and  the  name 
pleased  Lady  Annie  not  less  than  Sir  William. 
She  came  to  the  castle  and  spent  several  months. 
She  had  few  near  friends,  and  she  had  reached 
that  age  when  she  clung  closer  than  ever  to  her 
kindred.  Mrs.  Ainslie  was  sorry  when  she  left 
the  castle,  and  she  would  have  kept  her  still 


150          -  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

longer  had  she  known  how  soon  sorrow  was  to 
come  to  her  again.  L,ady  Annie  had  scarcely 
reached  her  home  before  the  lovely  little  Isabel 
passed  away  from  those  who  cherished  her  so 
fondly. 

The  hearts  of  the  father  and  mother  were 
sorely  smitten,  and  the  grandfather  refused  to  be 
comforted. 

Elspeth  missed  the  "dear  bairn,"  but  she 
more  than  once  hinted  that  one  could  "grieve 
owre  muckle."  One  day  she  said  to  Mrs.  Ainslie, 
"My  leddy,  you  mind  me  o'  a  woman  that  I 
ance  heard  tell  o'.  She  had  three  bonnie  bairns 
and  ane  o'  them  died.  Then  the  puir  mither 
grieved  the  haill  time;  she  wadna  be  comforted. 
Every  night  she  dreamed  o'  the  dead  bairn, 
dreamed  that  she  had  him  in  her  arms;  but  she 
wad  wake  greetin'  an'  find  her  arms  empty. 
Weel.  ane  night  she  had  a  dream  and  it  was 
this:  A  vera  wise  an'  gude  person  came  to  her 
an'  said,  'What  meaneth  the  greetin'  that  sounds 
in  my  ears  ?  What  aileth  thee  ?' 

"An'  she  made  answer,  'I  mourn  for  my 
bairn,  noo  mine  nae  mair.' 

"'Where  is  the  bairn?  Wha  took  him?' 
asked  the  stranger. 

"'  He  is  in  heaven;  God  took  him.' 

"  '  Had  God  nae  a  right  to  take  him  ?' 


SORROW  AT  THE;  CASTLE.  151 

"  'Ay,  I  canna  deny  that  he  gave  him  to  me; 
but  I  wush  that  he  had  never  been  gi'en  sin'  I 
couldna  keep  him.' 

"  '  Brought  he  nae  joy  to  you  that  you  canna 
lose  ?  Canna  you  remember  his  bit  smiles  as  you 
remember  the  flowers  o'  simmer  ?  Some  things 
be  tae  pure  to  stay  upon  earth ;  they  but  flit  before 
us  an'  are  awa'.  You  maunna  wush  to  keep  a' 
that  you  grasp.  When  onything  is  taken  frae 
you,  it  is  for  your  gude.  It  isna  gude  for  you 
to  haud  it  or  it  isna  gude  for  that  which  is  taken 
to  stay  with  you. ' 

' ' '  Weel,  I  wad  hae  kept  my  bairn  an'  I 
could. ' 

"  'Hae  you  none  left?' 

"  'Ay,  I  hae  twa.' 

"'An'  to  whom  do  they  belong  mair  than  to 
yoursel'  ?' 

"  '  To  God  wha  gave  them  to  me.  But  why 
do  you  frighten  me  by  speirin'  aboot  them  ?' 

' ' '  Because  you  hae  clean  forgotten  your  mer- 
cies. You  should  be  thank fu'  that  God  left  you 
twa  bairns.  Noo  let  there  be  nae  mair  murmur- 
ings;  for  though  God  doesna  reap  where  he  hasna 
sown,  wha  shall  say  that  he  maunna  reap  where 
he  has  sown?  Do  you  weel  to  grudge  him  ane  o' 
the  bairns  to  sit  before  him  in  his  kingdom  ?  You 
ken  that  He  wha  spake  as  never  mon  spake  said, 


152  -LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

"In  heaven  their  angels  do  always  behold  the 
face  o'  my  Faither  which  is  in  heaven."  An 
sin'  the  wee  bairn  sees  God's  face,  I  trow  he 
maun  hae  a  pleasanter  sight  than  the  twa  you 
hae  wi'  you,  sin'  they  canna  win  a  smile  frae 
you.  You  gi'e  them  sad  looks,  an'  if  they  stay 
wi'  you  they  wull  come  to  fear  that  God  does- 
na  ken  best.  It  may  be  that  they  too  wull  be 
taken  frae  you.  Mind,  noo,  nae  mair  bitter,  re- 
bellious tears. ' 

' '  An'  the  next  morning  the  mither  smiled 
doon  upon  the  wee  bairns  as  soon  as  their  e'en 
were  open,  an'  they  put  their  arms  aboot  her 
neck  an'  cried,  '  O  mither,  do  you  love  us  tae?' 

"Then  the  mither  made  answer,  'My  dear 
bairns,  God  kens  that  I  love  you.  Hoo  could 
you  doot  it  ?' 

u  '  Because  you  didna  show  it,  mither.' 

"Then  was  the  mither  convinced  that  the 
truth  had  been  told  her  in  her  dream,  an'  the  wee 
lads  never  again  saw  her  greet  for  their  dead 
brither." 

Mrs.  Ainslie  listened  with  interest  to  Elspeth's 
story,  and  when  it  was  ended  she  drew  little 
Kenneth  to  her  and  left  many  a  kiss  upon  his 
upturned  face. 

Marjorie  often  came  to  the  castle  in  those  days, 
for  she  sympathized  with  the  bereaved  friends. 


SORROW  AT  THE  CASTLE.  153 

Her  presence  was  like  sunshine,  and  young  as  she 
was,  she  said  many  comforting  words  to  her  aunt 
and  uncle. 

Then  there  came  a  long  and  very  precious 
letter  from  Lady  Annie,  in  which  she  wrote,  "I 
shed  tears  myself  over  the  death  of  the  wee  in- 
fant; yet  I  ken  that  however  tenderly  the  little 
one  may  have  been  cared  for  here,  heaven  has 
joys  far  exceeding  any  joy  that  human  love  can 
devise  or  human  thoughts  conceive  of.  I  am  sure, 
my  dear  Marion,  that  you  wull  turn  to  your  Sa- 
viour in  your  sorrow  and  then  you  wullna  find 
your  grief  overmastering." 

In  the  spring  a  family  moved  into  old  Ste- 
phen's cottage.  Aleck  Fisher  was  the  name  of  the 
new  farm-hand.  He  had  a  wife  and  four  children, 
all  of  whom  were  boys.  It  seemed  strange  to 
the  family  at  the  castle  to  look  out  and  see  chil- 
dren playing  around  the  door  of  the  cot  so  long 
occupied  by  a  childless  couple,  and  Sir  William 
whiled  away  many  a  weary  hour  watching  the 
merry  pranks  of  the  unsuspecting  little  urchins. 
He  soon  learned  their  names,  and  distinguished 
them  thus:  "Sandy  is  the  ane  wi'  the  red  head; 
Rab  is  the  ane  wi'  the  black  head;  Tarn  is  the 
ane  wi'  the  muckle  head;  an'  Geordie  is  the  ane 
wi'  the  white  head." 

Their  mother  was  a  good  woman;   but  she 


154  "  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

was  an  easy-going  person,  a  fact  of  which  the 
lads  were  already  aware.  The  father  was  a  dif- 
ferent parent  and  when  he  was  at  home  the  chil- 
dren were  very  quiet  and  obedient,  and  to  his 
question,  "  Hae  a'  the  bairns  been  gude?"  the 
mother  would  answer,  "Vera  gude,  Aleck,  vera 
gude,"  although  they  had  "  worried  her  the  haill 
day,"  as  she  had  more  than  once  told  them. 
Thus  the  boys  soon  caught  the  idea  that  all  was 
well  as  long  as  their  father  did  not  know  of 
their  ill-behavior.  This  management  would  have 
done  much  towards  spoiling  the  children  but  for 
the  explanation  the  mother  gave  them.  "You 
see,  lads,  your  faither  works  hard  to  give  us 
bread,  sae  I  diuna  like  to  fash  his  head  wi'  oor 
troubles."  But  if  she  had  carefully  examined 
her  motives,  she  would  have  known  she  feared 
that  the  father  would  correct  the  lads. 

Sir  William  was  not  long  in  selecting  a  favor- 
ite among  the  boys,  and  it  was  the  one  with  the 
"  muckle  head."  "  Gude  for  wee  Tarn,"  he  often 
said  as  he  watched  a  game  or  scuffle  where  Tom 
was  victorious.  Altogether  it  was  a  pleasant 
thing  to  have  the  children  under  his  sight  so 
much.  The  aged  need  to  see  life  and  activity 
around  them  in  order  to  keep  their  own  spirits 
young,  and  Sir  William  was  glad  that  the  little 
ones  often  diverted  his  mind  from  his  aches  and 


SORROW  AT  THE   CASTLE.  155 

pains.  When  tired  of  reading  and  of  resting  too — 
for  Mr.  Ainslie  took  all  the  care  of  the  estate  upon 
himself — he  was  often  led  back  to  his  own  boy- 
hood by  watching  the  ' '  wee  rogues ' '  at  their 
sports.  And  not  unfrequently  he  was  led  to  re- 
member that  there  is  a  world  where  none  ever 
grow  old;  then  would  come  a  feeling  not  unlike 
a  willingness  to  be  there. 


156  "  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

CHANGES. 

DURING  the  next  few  years  many  things  of 
interest  happened  to  our  friends.  Among  the 
sad  events  were  the  death  of  Lady  Annie  and  the 
severe  sickness  of  the  faithful  Elspeth ;  among  the 
pleasant  ones  were  the  birth  of  another  daughter 
at  the  castle  and  also  the  birth  of  a  son  at  the 
Cameron  place. 

But  to  tell  of  the  events  in  the  order  that  they 
happened  would  lead  us  first  to  the  old  farmhouse. 
Marjorie  and  Graham  thought  that  there  never 
was  a  fairer  child,  and  they  were  sure  that  the 
old  place  could  never  be  unattractive  to  them 
since  it  was  the  home  of  their  little  son.  Nor 
were  they  alone  in  thinking  so;  the  old  servants, 
who  held  their  places  so  long  under  Felix  only 
to  procure  their  ' '  sair-worn  penny  fee, ' '  now  felt 
that  all  was  changed.  They  said  to  each  other, 
"  Wha  ever  could  hae  thought  to  find  pleasure  i' 
warkin'  here?" 

And  they  could  best  judge  of  the  change. 
True,  Graham  had  lived  a  few  years  with  his 
grandfather,  but  he  had  been  a  favorite  with  the 


CHANGES.  157 

old  man.  When  his  daughter  died,  Felix  took 
the  little  Graham  to  his  home  and  tried  to  make 
him  happy.  Yet  he  made  no  effort  to  soften  the 
hard  places  in  the  life  of  those  who  had  grown 
old  in  his  service.  But  Marjorie's  coming  proved 
to  the  two  old  house  servants,  Jean  and  Nelly 
Hughs,  that  all  service  was  not  hard  service^ 
and  Graham's  different  management  on  the  farm 
lightened  the  burden  of  those  who  toiled  amid 
the  cold  of  winter  and  the  depressing  heat  of  the 
summer's  sun. 

Nor  was  this  all  inat  was  changed.  Th^  voice 
of  prayer  was  never  heard  in  the  house  of  Felix 
Cameron,  while  cursing  and  swearing  were  not 
strange  sounds.  Now  the  order  was  reversed,  for 
daily  did  prayer  ascend  to  the  Facher  of  mercies, 
while  profanity  was  prohibited. 

' '  God  be  praised  that  we  hae  lived  to  see  this 
day!"  said  old  Jean  Hughs  to  her  sister. 

"  You  may  well  give  tlie  praise  to  Him  wha 
has  worked  the  pleasing  change.  It  minds  me 
o'  oor  ain  hanie. ' ' 

"Ay,  it  is  like  it.  I  trow  that  we  will  be  bet- 
ter prepared  to  gang  to  oor  account  sin'  we  live 
wi'  Christian  folk." 

Blspeth  often  enjoyed  a  run  down  to  Marjorie's, 
but  soon  after  the  little  son  was  born  Elspeth's 
visits  were  discontinued  for  a  long  time.  She  fell 


158  *  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

sick  and  was  the  object  of  much  solicitude  not 
only  to  the  family  at  the  castle,  but  also  to  Mar- 
jorie.  A  fever  had  prostrated  Elspeth.  She  was 
very  delirious  and  the  name  of  Robin  was  often 
on  her  lips.  "Ay,  I  am  coming,  Robin,"  or  "It 
is  a  lang  time  sin'  I  hae  seen  you,  Robin;"  some 
such  sentence  she  often  uttered,  and  the  watchers 
would  shake  their  heads  and  say,  "She  is  goin' 
to  him." 

But  she  did  not  then  go  to  Robin.  The  fever 
abated,  and  then  came  the  long,  wearing,  yet  pa- 
tient waiting  for  health  to  come  again. 

"  I  think  I  maun  be  vera  sick,"  said  Elspeth 
to  Marjorie  one  day. 

"You  hae  been  vera  sick,  but  you  are  better 
noo,  or  you  wull  be  after  a  bit." 

"  Do  you  think  sae,  Marjorie?  I  think  that  I 
wunna  be  better,  for  I  am  that  feckless  that  I  can 
hardly  lift  my  hand.  I  am  sae  weary,  tae,  that  I 
feel  that  I  could  just  close  my  e'en  an'  dee." 

"You  maunna  dee,  Elspeth." 

"That  wull  be  as  the  gude  Lord  thinks  best," 
returned  the  sick  woman,  closing  her  eyes  wearily. 
Mrs.  Ainslie  looked  at  her  and  thought  that  prob- 
ably the  Lord  was  about  to  summon  Elspeth  to 
the  other  world. 

But  in  a  few  weeks  her  old  friend  was  sitting 
in  an  easy-chair,  and  she  said,  "I  wush  that  I 


CHANGES.  159 

could  hae  the  wee  lass  upon  my  knees.     You  ken 
that  I  hae  scarcely  set  e'en  on  her  yet." 

Mrs.  Ainslie  brought  the  child  and  laid  it  in 
Elspeth's  arms.  She  passed  her  hand  gently  over 
the  child's  head,  smoothing  the  hair,  saying,  ' '  Dear 
wee  lassie,  bonnie  wee  lassie!  Auld  Elspeth  ance 
thought  that  she  wad  never  haud  you  i'  her 
arms." 

She  seemed  to  be  perfectly  happy  with  the 
babe  in  her  arms  and  Kenneth  standing  by  her 
knee. 

"Hae  you  missed  me,  my  bairn?"  she  asked 
Kenneth  one  day. 

"Ay,  I  hae,  an'  I  heard  some  folk  say  that  you 
wad  dee;  but  you  wunna  dee  noo,  Elspeth,  wull 
you?" 

"  I  am  in  nae  muckle  danger  noo,  I  am  think- 
in',  but  I  canna  say.  Sic  things  are  wi'  God,  in 
his  hands,  an'  he  alane  kens  oor  time,  my  wee 
man." 

"  Weel,  I  hope  that  you  wull  live  a  lang,  lang 
time,  onyway,"  answered  the  child. 

In  a  few  days  Elspeth  had  improved  so  much 
that  she  took  a  short  walk  in  the  direction  of  the 
' '  burnie. ' '  She  knew  that  the  summer  days  were 
over,  but  she  was  not  prepared  for  the  change  in 
the  face  of  nature.  The  verdure  that  had  feasted 
her  eyes  when  she  last  sought  the  brookside  was 


160        -     LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

blackened  by  the  frost  and  the  air  was.  crisp  and 
cold;  still,  the  sun  shone  brightly  and  its  golden 
light  lay  on  the  steep  hillsides,  warming  the  few 
plants  that  had  braved  the  chilling  air  of  autumn. 
It  also  warmed  the  heart  and  hopes  of  Elspeth 
Lundie. 

u  It  is  God's  token  to  me  the  morn,"  she  said, 
encouraged.  "  If  it  hadna  been  for  the  bright  sun- 
licht  I  might  hae  had  a  gloomy  walk  amang  the 
deed  flowers  that  I  left  sae  bright  an'  fair.  Sae 
it  aye  is;  God  aye  puts  something  pleasant  over 
against  that  which  wad  be  likely  to  cast  oor  hearts 
doon.  He  is  sic  a  perfect  Faither  to  us,  sae  tender 
an'  sae  mindfu',  although  he  is  King  o'  kings  an' 
Lord  o'  lords,"  she  murmured  as  she  turned  to 
look  upon  the  mountains  and  the  lake,  the  rugged 
rocks  and  the  winding  stream.  The  dead  leaves 
rustled  beneath  her  feet  and  she  sighed  a  little 
that  she  must  tread  upon  them.  But  she  checked 
herself,  saying,  "  I  maunna  fret  at  the  fate  o'  the 
bonnie  green  things;  they  hae  served  their  turn 
an'  answered  their  creation.  May  I  do  as  weel; 
an'  when  I  am  called  to  lie  beneath  the  ground 
where  they  rustle,  when  soul  an'  body  shall  hae 
parted  company  till  the  resurrection  morn,  I  shall 
ken  the  happiness  o'  the  redeemed  i'  the  paradise 
o'  God." 

She  went  slowly  towards  the  house,  while  her 


CHANGES.  l6l 

heart  was  full  of  the  subject  of  changes,  changes 
that  come  to  animate  and  inanimate  things.  Mrs. 
Ainslie  came  to  meet  her,  for  she  feared  that  Els- 
peth  would,  in  the  joy  of  her  freedom,  walk  too 
far  and  tax  her  strength. 

' '  I  am  seeking  you,  Blspeth, ' '  she  said. 

' '  Are  you  though  ?  That  is  muckle  trouble 
for  you  to  take  for  the  likes  o'  me ;  but  you  hae 
done  muckle  mair  for  me  during  the  weeks  that 
I  hae  been  sick.  I  hae  been  a  great  trouble  to 
you,  my  leddy,  an'  I  hae  shed  mony  a  tear  on  the 
saft  pillows  that  you  put  under  my  head,  I  was 
that  overcome  by  your  kindness.  But  noo  that 
I  am  well  again,  an'  haena  shared  the  fate  o'  the 
deed  things  aboot  me,  it  wull  be  my  first  care  to 
be  mair  faithfu'  to  you." 

"  I  am  at  a  loss  to  ken  hoo  you  could  be  mair 
faithfu',  Elspeth,"  said  Mrs.  Ainslie,  smiling. 
"  As  for  the  care  that  I  had  during  your  sickness, 
I  was  grieved  that  I  could  not  minister  to  your 
wants  mair  than  I  did.  It  was  Marjorie's  hand 
ofttimes  that  smoothed  your  pillow." 

' '  I  ken  that.  Marjorie  is  wullin'  an'  handy, 
but  your  touch  is  sae  saft  an'  restfu',  my  dear 
leddy." 

They  had  reached  the  castle,  but  Elspeth's 
mind  was  not  diverted  from  the  thoughts  that  had 
filled  it  during  her  walk,  and  she  said,  ' '  Auld  age 

Lady  Marion's  Answer.  1 1 


162  ^      LADY   MARION'S   ANSWER. 

maun  be  vera  sad  to  unbelievers.  The  last  leuk 
o'  onything  pleasant  is  apt  to  make  us  sad,  even 
when  we  ken  that  we  are  to  hae  mair  an'  newer 
delights.  But  what  maun  it  be  for  ane  to  ken. 
that  he  maun  close  his  e'en  upon  this  pleasant 
warld  and  its  goodly  sights;  to  ken  that  he  maun 
close  his  ear  to  the  voices  of  freends,  the  sang  o' 
the  birds,  an'  the  sighing  o'  the  simmer  breeze, 
an'  never  mair  see  onything  delightfu',  never 
mair  hear  a  joyfu'  sound!  I  tell  you  it  maun  be 
dreadfu'!" 

Sir  William  entered  the  room  in  time  to  hear 
the  last  sentence,  and  he  asked,  "Of  what  are  you 
speakin'  sae  earnestly,  gude  Elspeth?" 

"  I  was  speakin'  o'  the  certainty  o'  the  change 
that  maun  come  to  auld  age,  and  hoo  sad  it  maun 
be  to  the  unbeliever." 

"Were  you  thinkin'  o'  your  auld  maister, 
Elspeth?" 

"  Na  in  particular  the  noo." 

"Weel,  I  wish  that  you  wad  think  o'  me,  es- 
pecially when  you  are  on  your  knees,  for  I  hae 
lived  tae  lang  withoot  the  friendship  o'  Him 
whose  bluid  cleanseth  frae  a'  sin.  An'  you  tae, 
my  dear  daughter,  think  often  in  like  manner  o' 
your  auld  faither,  for  he  is  amaist  dune  wi'  this 
life,  an'  its  wasted  years  trouble  his  vera  soul." 

This  was  said  with  a  tremulous  voice.     It  was 


CHANGES.  163 

certain  that  Sir  William  had  at  last  discovered 
the  folly  of  a  worldly  life.  Tears  dimmed  the 
eyes  of  Mrs.  Ainslie,  and  the  choking  sensation 
in  her  throat  forbade  utterance,  but  Elspeth's 
voice  framed  the  hearty  words,  ' '  God  be  praised 
that  you  hae  come  at  last  to  ken  your  entire  de- 
pendence on  the  merits  o'  the  Saviour."  This 
conversation  was  followed  by  many  more  on  the 
same  subject,  and  before  many  weeks  Sir  Wil- 
liam partook  of  the  sacrament  in  the  modest  little 
kirk  where  he  had  long  been  an  occasional  at- 
tendant. 

Mrs.  Ainslie  was  comforted  for  the  loss  of  the 
little  Isabel  by  the  birth  of  her  second  little  daugh- 
ter. It  was  a  fine,  healthy  child,  and  Sir  Wil- 
liam feelingly  remarked,  "  It  makes  it  seem  as  if 
we  had  the  wee.  lass  back  again."  It  was  laid  in 
its  mother's  arms  during  Elspeth's  illness,  and  so 
slowly  did  health  come  back  to  the  old  nurse  that 
the  child  was  several  weeks  old  before  she  had  the 
strength  to  attend  it. 

Great  was  Elspeth's  joy  when  she  was  well 
enough  to  resume  all  of  her  duties  and  responsi- 
bilities. The  children,  especially  the  baby,  re- 
ceived much  of  her  attention ;  but  Mrs.  Ainslie 
was  a  mother  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word,  and 
no  one,  not  even  Elspeth,  must  defraud  her  of  the 
pleasure  of  caring  for  her  children.  She  did  not 


164          *  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

name  the  infant  for  some  time.  But  when  Lady 
Annie  died,  Mrs.  Ainslie  in  her  grief  for- the  loss 
of  her  friend  and  kinswoman  called  the  child 
Annie. 

When  Lady  Annie's  will  was  opened  it  was 
found  that  she  had  left  a  large  sum  of  money  to 
Mrs.  Ainslie,  but  she  had  left  the  bulk  of  her 
property  to  Edith  Grant's  father,  he  being  nearer 
of  kin.  Archie  Grant  was  disappointed,  for  he 
expected  to  be  remembered;  but  Lady  Annie  saw 
fit  to  make  a  different  disposal  of  her  property. 

When  Mrs.  Ainslie  came  into  possession  of  her 
money  she  wished  to  buy  back  the  land  that  her 
father  had  sold  when  in  his  straits.  Graham 
Walker  readily  consented  to  part  with  the  prop- 
erty, and  the  bargain  was  soon  completed.  Al- 
though Sir  William's  heart  was  no  longer  set 
upon  worldly  treasures,  yet  he  rejoiced  that  the 
ancient  patrimony  was  once  more  entire,  that  the 
Campbell  family  owned  every  acre  up  to  the  an- 
cient landmarks.  Marion  herself  found  no  little 
pleasure  in  the  thought  that  her  son  would  inherit 
Cragsby  Castle  with  all  that  had  belonged  to  it  in 
the  days  of  the  ancestor  for  whom  he  was  named. 


ROGER'S  SECRET.  165 

CHAPTER   XVIII. 
ROGER'S  SECRET. 

ROGER'S  school-days  were  over  and  he  returned 
home  to  rest,  as  was  supposed;  but  any  close  ob- 
server could  have  seen  that  he  did  not  rest  even 
when  he  seemed  most  idle.  Marjorie  complained 
because  he  spent  so  little  time  at  the  farmhouse, 
and  though  he  was  pleasant  to  all  at  the  castle, 
he  spent  much  of  his  time  in  his  room.  His  un- 
cle more  than  once  rallied  him  upon  his  exclu- 
siveness,  and  Roger  merely  laughed  and  made  no 
reply,  neither  did  he  change  his  course,  but  he 
became  paler  and  thinner  every  day. 

At  last  Sir  William  spoke  out.  "  Roger,  lad, 
I  wunna  hae  it;  you  maun  e'en  gang  to  the  field 
an'  do  a  bit  wark.  You  ken  that  you  are  as  a  son 
to  me,  an'  I  wunna  hae  sic  a  white  face  around. 
Sae  gang  oot  an'  do  something  or  do  naething,  as 
you  like,  but  get  the  sun  an'  air  an'  a  bit  o'  color 
in  your  cheeks;  an'  if  that  wunna  do  I  wull  get 
a  doctor  for  you." 

Thus  closely  watched,  Roger  spent  more  time 
out  of  doors;  but  anywhere,  on  a  stone  under  the 
shade  of  the  hedgerdw,  at  the  brookside,  or  on  the 


1 66          *  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

margin  of  the  quiet  lake,  he  seemed  to  be  think- 
ing. 

Marjorie  was  the  first  to  solve  the  mystery.  It 
was  one  evening  when  she  was  at  the  castle  and 
all  the  family  were  complaining  of  Roger's  devo- 
tion to  some  secret  purpose  that  Marjorie  ex- 
claimed, "The  book,  the  book!  Is  it  aboot  a 
haunted  hoose,  Roger?  an'  what  do  you  ca'  it?" 

Roger  was  not  a  little  annoyed  that  his  secret 
was  a  secret  no  longer;  still  he  laughed  and  re- 
plied, "It  is  called  'The  Testimony  of  the 
Walls.'  " 

After  it  was  understood  that  Roger  was  wri- 
ting a  book  he  was  left  to  himself,  with  a  caution 
to  take  care  of  his  health.  Sir  William  said,  "I 
ken  noo  that  you  arena  in  ony  trouble  that  is  like 
to  drive  you  daft,  so  on  wi'  your  buik.  I  want  to 
see  it  myseP,  an'  I  ken  that  my  years  are  but 
few." 

Sir  William  did  live  to  see  Roger's  book  in 
print,  and  he  as  well  as  the  rest  of  the  family  was 
very  proud  of  it.  The  uncle  had  often  wished 
that  Roger  was  less  imaginative,  but  after  reading 
the  book  he  was  satisfied  that  he  was  as  he  was. 

You  may  be  sure  that  Elspeth  was  interested 
in  Roger's  success.  A  copy  of  the  book  lay  in  a 
convenient  place,  and  whenever  she  had  a  spare 
moment  she  would  don  her  heavy  steel-bowed 


ROGER'S  SECRET.  167 

spectacles  and  be  lost  in  the  volume.  Not  many 
days  elapsed  before  she  had  read  it  once;  but  she 
was  not  satisfied  with  that,  and  she  read  it  again. 
Thus  she  obtained  a  sufficient  knowledge  of  it  to 
add  its  stories  to  those  that  she  treasured  in  her 
memory. 

It  was  not  long  before  she  had  an  opportunity 
to  rehearse  them  to  the  Hughs  sisters,  for  they 
had  become  very  good  friends  since  Marjorie  went 
to  live  at  the  farmhouse.  As  was  very  natural, 
Elspeth  often  spoke  to  them  in  praise  of  their 
young  mistress  and  her  brother,  for  were  they  not 
the  "Ainslie  bairns"  of  other  days  and  still  dear 
to  her  heart  ? 

Once,  when  she  was  seated  with  her  knitting 
by  the  fire  in  Marjorie  Walker's  kitchen,  Jean 
Hughs  said,  "  I  hear  that  young  Ainslie  has  writ- 
ten a  book.  I  wad  like  to  ken  what  it  is  aboot." 

Elspeth  replied,  ' '  I  hae  nae  doot  but  I  can 
gi'e  you  an  understanding  aboot  the  story  or  the 
stories  that  it  contains.  It  is  aboot  ane  family, 
but  it  is  a  family  o'  five  generations,  an'  their 
lives  dinna  run  in  ane  groove,  you  ken.  lyet  me 
think  a  bit;  yes,  five  generations:  the  last  son's 
family,  his  faither's  family,  his  grandfaither's,  his 
great-grandfaither's,  an'  his  great-great-grand- 
faither's  families.  Weel,  a'  that  lad  imagines 
aboot  those  folk  is  just  wonderfu'.  I  can  aye  re- 


i68  *  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

member  a  gude  story  mysel',but  I  canna  mak'  up 
ane." 

Jean  and  Nelly  nodded  assent,  and  Elspeth 
went  on:  "It  begins  somat  like  this:  Lang  ago, 
when  there  was  a  sair  feud  atween  the  chiefs  o' 
twa  Highland  clans,  there  was  a  secret  merriage 
atween  the  son  o'  ane  an'  the  daughter  o'  anither, 
an'  baith  the  bride  an'  the  groom  laid  hands  on  a' 
the  valuables  that  they  could  come  to  in  the  hooses 
of  their  faithers  an'  gaed  awa'.  I  canna  tell  just 
where  they  went,  but  it  was  far  frae  their  hames. 
Weel,  they  gaed  i'  the  night-time,  an'  sic  surprise 
an'  sic  anger  an'  sic  mourning  as  there  was  i'  the 
morn  when  baith  chiefs  missed  their  firstborn, 
their  hoarded  siller,  an'  their  best  gear.  But  the 
meaning  o'  it  was  soon  kenned,  and  naebody 
dooted  that  fair  Margaret  and  brave  Roderick 
had  gane  together.  The  young  folk  kenned  that 
their  parents  wad  never  consent  to  their  merriage, 
an'  they  loved  each  ither  weel. 

"When  the  parents  found  oot  that  the  mer- 
riage had  really  taken  place  they  didna  pursue 
their  bairns,  but  they  were  that  angry  that  they 
counted  them  as  deed.  Only  the  mither  o'  Mar- 
garet wept  in  secret,  believing  that  she  should  see 
her  daughter  nae  mair.  An'  there  were  tears  in 
Margaret's  eyes  as  she  was  left  alane  day  after 
day.  She  had  nae  company  but  a  shepherd's  wife 


ROGER'S  SECRET.  169 

an'  her  childish  auld  mither  a'  the  time  that 
Roderick  was  awa'  building  a  hame  for  her. 

"It  was  a  sma'  but  strang  castle  that  he  built, 
an'  I  mind  noo  that  it  was  amang  the  mountains 
that  are  situate  between  the  river  Spey  an'  the 
river  Dee,  but  weel  to  the  west  an'  far  frae  the 
mouths  o'  the  rivers.  Weel,  lanely  as  Margaret 
was  an'  a  bit  hamesick  forbye,  she  aye  had  a 
smile  o'  welcome  when  her  husband  rode  up  at 
nightfa'. 

"At  last,  when  Margaret  went  to  the  home 
that  Roderick  had  prepared  for  her,  she  didna 
forget  that  lowly  woman  wi'  whom  she  had  be- 
come sae  well  acquainted.  Through  her  she  got 
servants  that  were  faithfu'  an'  gude.  But  the 
leddy's  hame  was  ruder  than  her  faither's,  an', 
mairover,  she  missed  her  gentle  mither.  Sae  the 
walls  o'  the  castle  often  inclosed  a  heavy-hearted 
wife.  But  after  a  bit,  when  Roderick  was  the 
proud  an'  happy  faither  o'  a  wee  son,  she  left  off 
sighing  an'  fancied  that  she  wad  never  be  un- 
happy again.  She  sang  sweet  cradle  songs  to  the 
wee  ane  wha  lay  at  her  breast,  an'  the  yearnin' 
for  her  mither  seemed  to  dee  oot  i'  the  gladness  o' 
her  ain  mitherhood. 

"  One  evening,^  when  she  had  been  five  years 
frae  her  early  hame,  an  auld  servant  of  her  fai- 
ther's stood  before  her  door. 


170         -    LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

"  'Come  in,  Alan,'  said  Margaret;  'but  I  see 
you  are  the  bearer  o'  evil  tidings. ' 

"  '  I  am  that,'  said  he.  '  Your  mither  is  sick 
unto  death,  and  I  am  come  to  convey  her  dyin' 
message  to  her  far-awa'  daughter. ' 

' '  Fu'  loviu'  an'  tender  were  the  wards  that 
he  spake  to  the  sad  leddy,  an'  they  were  the 
mither' s  wards  repeated,  you  ken.  Weel,  she  fell 
a-greetin',  an'  she  grat  till  her  e'en  were  red. 
Then  was  Roderick  wroth,  an'  he  said,  '  You  hae 
shed  tears  enough.  You  show  plainly  that  your 
heart  is  but  half  wi'  me.  I  trow  that  you  wadna 
greet  sae  sairly  an'  I  lay  deed  before  you. '  An' 
his  face  grew  dark  wi'  rage  that  she  sae  weel  re- 
membered the  hame  he  had  taken  her  frae.  The 
puir  leddy  bent  her  tearfu'  face  over  the  curly 
head  o'  her  wee  lad  an'  the  fountain  o'  her  tears 
dried  up,  but  her  heart  was  a'  the  heavier.  She 
longed  to  ask  her  mither' s  forgiveness  through 
Alan,  but  she  daredna  do  sae.  She  saw  the  auld 
mon  depart,  an'  her  heart  was  amaist  breakin'  as 
she  said,  'Gi'e  mither  my  love.'  Eh,  what  a 
burden  there  was  upon  her  heart!  The  walls 
around  seemed  to  gi'e  an  answering  sound  that 
mocked  her  grief,  an'  her  footfa'  on  the  floor  sent 
oot  the  sound,  '  Alane,  alane  !' 

"  But  a  mair  heedfu'  wife  than  this  same  Mar- 
garet there  couldna  be.  Nae  wish  o'  her  hus- 


ROGER'S  SECRET.  171 

band's  could  shape  itself  into  wards  before  she  set 
aboot  to  grant  it  an'  to  please  him  in  a'  things. 
She  clean  forgot  hersel'  in  her  devotion  to  Rod- 
erick and  Cuthbert  her  son.  It  was  easy  to  see 
frae  her  leuk  that  she  thought  not  o'  hersel',  for 
her  e'e  grew  large  an'  her  cheek  became  pale  an' 
thin,  an'  the  pitifu'  servants  whispered  arnang 
themselves,  'The  mistress  wull  dee.'  A'  the 
while  Roderick  loved  his  wife  in  his  ain  way.  It 
was  a  love,  you  ken,  that  demanded  a'  her  heart's 
affections,  that  wad  break  doon  a'  the  cherished 
memories  o'  other  days;  an'  yet  he  demanded  the 
right  to  divert  himsel'  in  the  chase  'an'  sic-like 
sports  for  days  together.  He  didna  stop  to  see 
that  Margaret  was  unhappy,  that  her  cheek  was 
owre  fair  an'  her  ance  red  lips  were  owre  pale. 
He  didna  hear  the  oft-heaved  sigh,  but  the  walls 
were  the  silent  witnesses  o'  them.  The  puir  led- 
dy  wad  oft  sit  in  the  chimney  corner  wi'  her  heid 
bent  upon  her  breast,  an'  she  wad  ask  hersel'  if 
happiness  could  ever  come  back  to  her  heart; 
an'  the  wild  winds  answered  hoarsely  doon  the 
wide  chimney,  '  Never  mair,  never  mair !' 

"In  her  sorrow  she  bethought  hersel'  o'  the 
dear,  compassionate  Lord  an'  o'  the  prayer  he 
gave  us.  Although  in  her  haste  to.  leave  her  fai- 
ther's  hame  she  hadna  taken  her  Bible,  she  could- 
na  be  robbed  o'  the  comfort  o'  that  prayer,  for  she 


172         *    LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

kenned  it  ward  for  ward.  She  was  wont  to  say  it 
reverently,  an'  then  to  add,  '  O  Lord  Jesus,  if  it 
isna  wrang,  I  will  put  this  muckle  to  thine  ain 
prayer:  Prepare  me  to  dee  i'  peace  wi'  thee,  an' 
guide  my  bairn  that  he  doesna  grow  up  to  be  a 
sinfu'  mon.' 

"Weel,  grief  is  a  great  slayer  o'  hearts,  you 
ken,  especially  when  it  is  pent  up,  and  Margaret 
wadna  think  to  tell  the  servants  or  ony  ane  that 
she  was  just  pinin'  awa'  for  companionship.  If 
she  had  been  a  widow  it  wad  hae  done  to  tell  it, 
but  sin'  her  husband  was  living  she  wadna  mak' 
sic  an  admission.  She  thought  that  she  wad 
live  till  Cuthbert  came  to  years  o'  understanding 
but  she  didna.  She  had  nae  human  comforter, 
the  buik  says,  an'  this  was  weel,  else  she  wadna 
hae  been  in  sic  earnest  to  win  her  way  to  the  di- 
vine Comforter.  Him  she  found,  an'  she  died 
believing  that  she  wad  live  again  where  disap- 
pointment an'  sorrow  canna  follow. 

"  Roderick  never  merried  again,  but  the  death 
of  his  wife  didna  soften  him.  He  missed  her 
an'  he  blamed  God  that  she  was  awa'.  He  was 
proud  o'  his  bairn  an'  he  longed  for  the  time  to 
come  when  he  could  be  trained  to  a'  the  sports 
that  he  himsel'  loved  sae  weel.  Scarce  had 
Cuthbert  reached  mon's  stature  when  his  faither 
was  that  crippled  that  he  couldna  lift  himsel' 


ROGER'S  SECRET.  173 

again.  Eh !  but  then  there  were  sounds  for  the 
walls  to  hear.  An'  sounds  they  were  that  aniaist 
made  them  cry  oot  wil  shame,  for  it  was  mon 
cursin'  his  Maker.  Roderick  grew  a  waur  mon 
day  after  day,  for  when  trouble  doesna  mak'  a 
mon  better  it  aye  mak's  him  waur.  Weel,  after 
a  few  years  daith  came,  an'  Roderick,  although 
he  should  hae  been  in  the  prime  o'  life,  was  called 
awa'  to  answer  for  a  wasted  life. 

"Weel,  here  I  am  but  through  the  first  gen- 
eration, an'  the  evening  is  far  spent  an'  my  yarn 
is  knitted  up.  I  canna  tell  you  mair  aboot  the 
buik  to-night,  but  gin  you  wish  to  hear  the  rest,  I 
wull  come  again. ' ' 

"Weel,  come  soon,  Elspeth,  for  I  like  the 
story  weel,"  said  Jean  Hughs,  and  her  sister  re- 
peated the  request. 


174        -     LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 
CHAPTER   XIX. 

ELSPETH  AT  THE   FARMHOUSE. 

A  FEW  days  later  Elspeth  went  again  to  the 
old  farmhouse  to  spend  the  evening.  The  Hughs 
sisters  came  and  sat  down  with  an  expectant  look 
on  their  faces,  and  Elspeth  began, 

"Weel,  where  was  I?  Oh,  I  ken.  Roderick 
died  an'  Cuthbert  was  left  alane.  He  merried  a 
bonnie-faced  shepherdess,  an'  Mysie,  for  that  was 
her  name,  was  as  good  as  she  was  bonnie.  There 
was  noo  a  happy  family  in  the  hame  amang  the 
mountains.  Sons  and  daughters  were  born  to 
Cuthbert  and  Mysie.  Gude  bairns  they  were 
too,  a'  but  ane  wha  was  named  Roderick.  This 
ane  seemed  to  justify  the  sayin'  that  bairns  are 
like  those  for  whom  they  are  named.  He  seemed 
to  hae  the  same  reckless  daring  that  led  his  grand- 
faither  to  persuade  Margaret  to  leave  her  hame, 
the  same  selfish  spirit  that  led  him  to  forget  her 
happiness  in  seekin'  his  ain.  But  his  parents 
kenned  weel  hoo  to  rule  in  their  family.  Mysie 
hadna  had  a  wise,  stern  faither  for  nothing.  She 
tried  to  rear  up  her  bairns  in  the  way  that  they 
should  gang,  an'  she  oft  told  them,  '  Mind,  I  ex- 


ELSPETH   AT  THE   FARMHOUSE.  175 

pect  you  to  do  richt. '  But  the  strang,  firm  leadin' 
o'  Roderick's  parents  made  him  deceitfu';  he 
was  aye  after  some  underhanded  trick.  He 
wasna  content  wi'  gaen  wrang  himsel',  but  he 
aye  tried  to  lead  his  brither  awa'  wi'  him.  When 
he  tried  to  persuade  Gilbert  to  do  onything  vera 
bad,  he  made  this  answer:  '  Nae,  Roderick,  I 
maun  behave  myself;  for  mither  expects  it  o' 
me.' 

u  '  Mither  expects  it  o'  me,  too,  Gilbert.' 

' ' '  Mair  shame  to  you  that  you  disappoint  her, 
Roderick  Stewart. ' 

"  '  As  sure  as  daith,  Gilbert,  you  are  a  cow- 
ard, '  Roderick  replied. 

1 '  '  You  are  waur  than  a  coward,  for  if  you 
hae  spirit,  it  isna  o'  the  richt  kind.' 

' '  Then  they  had  mony  a  hasty  ward  between 
them,  but  Gilbert  wadna  gi'e  in.  Mony  a  strife 
they  had  while  they  were  lads,  ane  pullin'  the 
richt  way  and  the  ither  pullin'  the  wrang  way, 
an'  when  they  grew  to  manhood  the  case  was  nae 
different.  At  last  Roderick  said  to  his  brither, 
4 1  am  gaen  to  rin  awa'.' 

' ' '  Where  wull  you  gang  ?' 

"  '  Where  wull  I  gang?     Anywhere  frae  this.' 

'"What  for?' 

' ' '  For  gude  reasons.  I  wrant  to  better  my  con- 
dition. ' 


176         -    LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

' '  Gilbert  supposed  that  this  was  but  an  idle 
threat,  an'  it  went  oot  o'  his  mind.  But  ane 
morn  Roderick  couldna  be  found.  His  parents 
were  sairly  grieved  as  day  after  day  went  by  an' 
they  could  gain  no  tidings  o'  him.  They  had 
ane  gude  son  left  an'  three  dutifu'  daughters,  an' 
they  comforted  their  hearts  as  best  they  could, 
giving  their  absent  son  to  God's  keepin';  for  the 
inither  kenned  weel  hoo  to  pray. 

"Roderick  was  far  frae  following  the  peace- 
ful avocations  of  his  family ;  he  was  bound  to  get 
gain  by  fair  or  by  foul  means.  Sae  far  did  greed 
rule  in  his  heart  that  mony  a  traveller  emptied 
his  pock  that  he  might  win  past  Roderick  wi'  his 
life.  Ane  dark  night,  when  a  traveller  refused 
to  gi'e  him  his  purse  an'  seemed  to  be  a  match 
for  him,  Roderick  drew  his  dirk  an'  was  aboot 
to  plunge  it  into  the  breast  o'  his  brither  mon,  lit- 
tle thinkin'  that  it  was  his  vera  ain  brither.  But 
it  was  sae.  It  seemed  that  some  gude  still  spake 
oot  in  this  bad  mon's  heart.  He  threw  doon  the 
dirk  an'  said,  'I  maun  hand  back;  I  maun  keep 
my  hands  free  frae  the  bluid  o'  mon.  Mither  ex- 
pects it  o'  me. ' 

"'As  sure  as  daith,  it  is  Roderick,'  said  the 
mon  at  his  side.  '  Brither,  brither,  hoo  could 
you  do  sic  a  thing  ?' 

"'Gilbert,  is  it  you?     Dinna  tell  it,'  an'  he 


ELSPETH   AT  THE   FARMHOUSE.  177 

said  nae  mair,  but  ran  wi'  speed  into  the  wood 
hard  by.  Gilbert  couldna  find  him  for  a'  his 
searching.  Sae  he  kenned  that  his  brither  was  a 
highwaymon,  an'  not  far  frae  his  ain  hame.  He 
hoped  that  Roderick  wasna  a  murderer,  that 
some  influence  o'  his  mither  wad  keep  him  frae 
goin'  that  length.  Puir  Gilbert,  what  could  he 
do  ?  He  daredna  tell  his  parents  the  truth,  an'  the 
secret  drove  him  amaist  daft.  He  strove  mair 
than  ever  to  be  a  gude  son;  but  he  knew  that  the 
auld  folk  wearied  for  a  sight  of  their  firstborn. 

"  '  If  he  wad  but  come  hame, '  said  the  mither, 
'  I  could  forgive  him  ony  sins  save  twa.' 

"Gilbert  weel  kenned  that  one  o'  these  sins 
was  touchin'  the  life  o'  a  fellow  mortal.  He 
wasna  quite  sure  o'  the  ither,  but  as  he  leuked 
around  on  his  fair,  virtuous  sisters  he  settled  the 
matter  in  his  ain  mind. 

"It  was  late  in  life  before  Gilbert  merried,  for 
he  said,  '  Suppose  I  should  become  parent  to  sic 
a  son  as  Roderick.'  But  his  faither  said,  '  Wull 
you  let  your  family  dee  oot,  Gilbert?'  Sae  he 
took  a  wife,  an'  but  ane  son  was  born  o'  that 
union.  Gilbert  aye  bided  wi'  his  faither.  Twa 
o'  his  sisters,  Katherine  an'  Margaret,  were  mer- 
ried, but  Agnes  bided  at  hame.  A  great  fear 
was  upon  Gilbert  until  he  kenned  that  his  son 
was  good  an'  dutifu'. 


178  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

"A'  hope  o'  the  return  o'  Roderick  had  died 
oot  in  the  hearts  o'  the  auld  faither  an'  mither. 
They  were  waitin'  in  the  gloamin'  o'  a  winter 
evening  for  the  candles  to  be  brought  when  Gil- 
bert entered  an'  said,  '  Faither,  mither,  can  you 
bear  strange  news  the  night  ?' 

"  '  Is  it  gude  or  bad  news?'  they  asked. 

"'It  is  baith  gude  an'  bad,'  he  answered. 
'Roderick  is  but  noo  come  hame,  an'  he  is  a 
dyin'  mon.' 

"'God  help  us!'  said  they  as  they  went  to 
meet  Roderick. 

"  His  voice  was  tremulous  an'  a  muckle  tear 
'  stood  in  each  e'e  as  he  said,  '  Mither  I  hae  come 
hame  to  dee.' 

"  Weel,  I  canna  tell  you  hoo  affectin'  it  was, 
but  the  buik  says  that  they  a'  lifted  up  their 
voices  an'  wept  together.  Roderick  had  said  truly 
that  he  had  come  hame  to  dee,  but  he  was  pen- 
itent. Mony  a  confession  he  poured  out  before 
God;  sometimes  it  seemed  that  he  confessed  his 
sins  to  the  vera  walls.  He  tauld  his  mither  that 
her  teachin'  had  kept  him  frae  ane  great  sin, 
but  he  couldna  bring  himsel'  to  tell  her  that  he 
had  amaist  spilled  his  ain  brither's  bltiid.  He 
died  lamentin'  his  sins  an'  his  waywardness. 
His  parents  soon  followed  him,  an'  as  they  passed 
over  they  baith  were  enabled  to  bear  witness  to 


ELSPETH   AT  THE   FARMHOUSE.  179 

the  depth  o'  peace  that  God  gi'es  to  them  wha 
trust  in  him.  As  they  were  aboot  to  step  oot 
on  the  untried  road  that  daith  opens  they  said, 
4  Though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow 
of  daith,  I  wull  fear  no  evil,  for  thou  art  wi'  me; 
thy  rod  an'  thy  staff,  they  comfort  me. ' 

"  Weel,  after  the  auld  folk  died  Gilbert's  fam- 
ily seemed  small.  His  expenses  were  light  an' 
siller  was  plenty.  If  he  had  been  a  mon  like  his 
brither,  he  wad  hae  gloated  over  a'  the  shinin' 
gowd  that  passed  through  his  hands,  but  he  was- 
na.  He  kenned  weel  that  there  are  other  riches 
than  this  warld  offers  an'  mair  endurin',  ye  ken. 
Besides  he  thought  o'  his  mither  an'  o'  her  expec- 
tations o'  him.  '  Mither  expects  me  to  use  this 
warld  as  na  abusin'  it,  an'  to  live  sae  that  I  may 
meet  her  in  heaven,'  he  wad  say.  This  was  a 
strang  leadin'  line  in  the  right  direction,  an'  kept 
him  oot  o'  temptation.  Ay,  I  maun  say  that 
when  I  read  that  I  thought  it  wad  be  weel  for  us 
to  remember  that  oor  friends  wha  hae  passed 
over  are  hopin'  an'  expectin'  that  we  wull  do 
oor  best  in  the  warld  to  mak'  oor  calling  an' 
election  sure. 

"Weel,  it  wad  be  hard  to  tell  hoo  muckle  gude 
this  Gilbert  did.  Hoo  mony  puir  he  clad,  hoo 
mony  empty  meal-pocks  he  filled,  hoo  mony  com- 
fortin'  wards  he  spake,  an'  hoo  mony  blessin's  fol- 


180'  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

lowed  him  couldna  be  estimated.  His  life  just 
flowed  on  an'  on  like  a  smooth-rinnin'  river  till  it 
emptied  into  the  ocean  o'  eternity.  Nane  dooted 
that  a  gude  mon  had  passed  awa',  an'  mony  a 
hearthstane  bare  witness  that  he  was  missed. 
The  walls  o'  his  hame  seemed  to  be  the  witnesses 
to  the  wards  written  aboon  his  heid  as  he  lay 
quiet  in  daith,  '  So  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.' 

"His  widow  mourned  in  her  laneliness.  His 
sister  Agnes  felt  that  her  hame  was  hame  nae 
langer;  but  she  had  kenned  nae  ither,  sae  she  bided 
there  till  her  nephew  Gilbert  brought  hame  a  gay 
wife  wi'  strange  ways,  then  she  went  to  bide  wi' 
her  sisters. 

"  Frae  the  merriage  o'  Gilbert  sprang  a  large 
family,  an'  the  walls  o'  the  castle  heard  mair 
laughter  an'  mair  discord,  mair  sangs  an'  mair 
curses,  mair  frolic  an'  mair  dourness,  than  ever 
before.  The  mither  wasna  frae  common  folk,  an' 
this  wad  seem  mair  promisin'  for  her  family. 
Still,  simple-minded  folk  often  manage  their 
bairns  in  a  mair  praiseworthy  manner;  an',  after 
a',  it  depends  whether  the  parents  seek  help  frae 
the  Faither  o'  us  a'  whether  the  bairns  do  good  or 
ill.  Gilbert's  wife  was  destitute  o'  the  ane  thing 
needfu'  ;  the  fear  o'  the  Lord  wasna  before  her 
e'en.  Her  heart  was  taken  up  wi'  the  pleasures 
o'  this  warld  an'  the  deceitfulness  o'  riches.  She 


ELSPETH   AT  THE   FARMHOUSE.  l8l 

gave  little  thought  to  her  bairns,  an'  they  gave 
little  heed  to  her,  an'  that  was  why  they  were  sic 
an  unsteady  family.  Gilbert  wasna  like  his  fai- 
ther  before  him,  or  he  wad  hae  putten  doon  the 
thoughtless  youngsters  o'  his  an'  made  them  mair 
tentie-like.  But  that  isna  a' ;  the  bairns  scattered 
the  siller  forbye,  but  their  puir  auld  graudmither 
didna  live  to  see  it.  Puir  soul,  she  wadna  hae 
had  muckle  pleasure  wi'  sic  grandchildren,  wi' 
their  clavers  an'  their  havers,  let  alane  the  scat- 
term'  o'  their  warldly  goods  an'  the  desecration 
o'  the  Sabbath  an'  sic  like.  It  was  tae  muckle 
for  Gilbert ;  he  groaned  wi'  the  disappointment ; 
but  his  wife  was  the  rulin'  spirit,  you  see. 

"Weel,  to  make  a  lang  story  short,  those 
chiels  o'  his  just  made  trouble  enough  wi'  bad 
debts  an'  bad,  idle  habits,  an'  the  faither  bowed 
under  it  an'  gave  up.  He  was  taken  wi'  a  bad 
cold.  There  was  nae  ane  to  leuk  after  him,  an' 
he  had  nae  heart  to  leuk  after  himsel' .  He  slipped 
awa'  oot  o'  the  din  an'  strife  aboot  him  into  the 
ither  warld.  An'  upon  the  walls  o'  the  hoose  was 
written  his  confession,  '  I  hae  failed  in  ilka  thing; 
wae  is  me!' 

"Then  the  eldest  son,  named  Cuthbert,  took 
matters  in  his  ain  hands.  Noo  it  is  easy  to  see 
that  he  couldna  set  matters  straight  at  ance,  even 
if  he  had  been  baith  wise  an'  gude;  but  he  was 


182  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

neither.  "The  property  was  soon  a'  under  debt, 
an'  he  an'  his  mither  quarrelled  the  haill  time. 
The  other  sons,  one  after  another,  gaed  oot  in  the 
warld,  but  nae  glide  gaed  wi'  them. 

"Weel,  things  gaed  on  frae  bad  to  warse  wi' 
the  mither  and  Cuthbert,  till  ane  day,  when  wards 
o'  strife  ran  high,  the  mither  was  in  a  rage  an' 
the  son  grew  desperate.  He  spoke  these  words : 
'  I  wull  male'  an  end  o'  mysel','  an'  he  hurried  to 
his  room  an'  stabbed  himsel'.  His  heart's  bluid 
spurted  oot  upon  the  flure  an'  left  its  ane  testi- 
mony. The  mither  got  such  a  shock  that  she  fell 
doon  dead  beside  her  son.  The  creditors  came 
an'  claimed  their  ain,  an'  naebody  wad  dwell  in 
the  hoose  because  o'  the  suicide  o'  Gilbert.  Folk 
said  that  sounds  came  oot  o'  the  walls,  an'  that 
the  bliiid-stains  wadna  wash  oot  o'  them  ;  that 
Cuthbert  the  first  an'  the  twa  Gilberts  wad  come 
an'  wring  their  han's  an'  mak'  loud  an'  lang  lam- 
entation owre  the  ruin  o'  the  family. 

"But  I  hae  nae  patience  wi'  sic-like  tales;  I 
canna  abide  them.  The  haill  story  was  gotten  up 
by  Roger's  imagination,"  Elspeth  explained  to  her 
excited  hearers.  Then  she  added,  ' '  Roger  was 
asked  why  he  didna  gi'e  the  last  Gilbert  a  gude 
wife,  and  then  a'  wad  hae  been  weel;  but  he  said, 
'Folk  arena  particular  enough  to  choose  gude 
wives.  There's  mony  a  mon  wha  mak's  as  puir 


ELSPETH  AT  THE  FARMHOUSE.  183 

a  choice  as  Gilbert  did. '  Then  he  was  asked  why 
he  gave  ony  o'  the  Stewarts  a  gude  character  sin' 
he  gave  the  story  sic  a  bad  ending,  an'  he  an- 
swered, '  To  show  that  ilka  mon  maun  think  an' 
act  for  himsel' ;  that  he  cannot  win  through  the 
warld  on  the  merits  o'  his  faithers.'  Weel,  that 
is  sae;  we  maun  a'  build  oor  ane  characters,  you 
ken." 

M  Ay,  that  is  sae,  that  is  sae, ' '  said  Jean  and 
Nelly  in  a  breath. 

"  Noo,"  said  Blspeth,  "  I  haena  tauld  you  the 
story  as  the  buik  was  writ.  I  haena  the  language 
to  tell  it  weel,  but  you  hae  an  inkling  o'  it." 

"An'  vera  glad  we  are  that  you  hae  tauld 
us,"  responded  the  Hughs  sisters.  After  a  mo- 
ment's silence  Jean  asked,  "  Isna  young  Ainslie 
to  tak'  a  wife  to  himsel'  soon?" 

"I  expect  he  wull ;  leastways  it  leuks  vera 
like  it  noo.  I  think  that  Edith  Grant  wullna  be 
like  Gilbert's  wife." 

Within  a  year's  time  Roger's  marriage  to  Edith 
had  taken  place.  Elspeth's  comment  was,  ' '  Weel, 
baith  the  Ainslie  bairns  are  weel  merried." 


184  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

CHAPTER   XX. 

THE   MOTHERLESS  BAIRNS. 

WHEN  Aleck  Fisher  had  been  living  three  years 
in  old  Stephen's  cottage  he  had  the  misfortune  to 
lose  his  wife.  Mrs.  Ainslie's  heart  was  filled  with 
sympathy  for  the  motherless  children,  and  she  sent 
for  them  to  come  to  the  castle,  when  she  showered 
comforts  upon  them  with  a  lavish  hand. 

No  one  seeing  the  four  lads  bowed  with  sorrow 
would  have  thought  it  possible  that  they  were  the 
same  merry  little  urchins  that  had  so  often  attract- 
ed the  attention  of  Sir  William  with  their  rough, 
boisterous  play.  "The  red  head,  the  black  head, 
the  muckle  head,  and  the  white  head,"  all  were 
uncovered  in  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Ainslie.  Her 
unlooked-for  kindness  made  them  thoughtful  and 
gentle,  while  it  partly  softened  their  sorrow  and 
filled  the  blank  that  death  had  made. 

Elspeth  watched  her  young  mistress  with  evi- 
dent satisfaction  and  admiration,  and  she  asked, 
' '  My  dear  leddy,  are  you  goin'  to  mither  a'  those 
bairns?" 

"For  the  present,  at  least,"  Mrs.  Ainslie  an- 
swered. 


THE   MOTHERLESS    BAIRNS.  185 

' '  It  beats  a' , "  answered  Elspeth,  and  ventured 
no  further  remark. 

Mr.  Ainslie  was  sure  that  his  wife  possessed 
rare  traits  of  goodness  and  benevolence.  Sir  Wil- 
liam feelingly  said,  ' '  Marion,  daughter,  you  grow 
mair  an'  mair  like  her  wha  bore  you.  I  thought 
that  you  hadna  her  sweetness,  but  it  blossoms  oot 
every  year.  You  are  liker  her  than  I  ever  dared 
to  hope.  I  see  that  you  ripen  fast  in  faith  an' 
gude  warks;  God  grant  that  you  mayna  be  as 
early  called  to  your  reward.  She  went  to  her  rest 
at  five  an'  thirty.  That  was  mony  years  agone, 
an'  hoo  mony  o'  those  years  I  hae  groped  in  the 
darkness  an'  blindness  o'  sin."  After  a  moment's 
hesitation  he  continued,  "  Perhaps,  after  a',  Mar- 
ion, I  am  sadder  for  the  trouble  I  gave  you  aboot 
matrimony  than  onything  else.  Thank  God  that 
the  answer  you  gave  Dalziel  saved  you  frae  a 
blighted  life,  for  I  weel  believe  that  he  is  a  doon- 
right  scoundrel.  Even  then  I  hadna  muckle  faith 
in  his  morality,  but  I  looked  at  the  gowd  an'  the 
siller;  I  looked  at  the  gowd  an'  the  siller.  It 
gars  me  tak'  shame  to  mysel'  to  own  it  noo,  an' 
I  thought  you  were  disobedient  an'  undutifu', 
puir  mitherless  lassie  that  you  were." 

"Dinna  blame  yoursel'  ony  mair,  faither ;  I 
am  a  happy  woman,  as  you  see.  I  hae  a'  that 
heart  can  wish  for,  an'  it  amaist  frightens  me 


i86  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

when  I  think  o'  the  gude  that  falls  to  my  lot. 
Perhaps  you  can  understand  the  pleasure  it  gives 
me  to  comfort  the  Fisher  laddies.  Oot  o'  my 
abundance  I  wad  fain  drop  crumbs  to  the  empty. ' ' 

"  Ay,  I  understand  your  mind  weel  enough  to 
ken  that,  Marion.  I  suppose  that  you  hae  often 
thought  o'  what  I  hae  been  thinkin'  o'  late,  hoo 
far  aboon  a'  human  example  o1  disinterested  be- 
nevolence stands  the  divine  example  o'  oor  suf- 
ferin'  Saviour.  Reach  oot  as  we  may,  forget  oor- 
sel's  as  much  as  possible,  there  is  naething  that 
we  can  do  for  oor  fellow-mortals  that  is  worthy  to 
stand  in  the  shadow  o'  his  ane  great  act  o'  love." 

"Naething,"  answered  Mrs.  Ainslie;  "an' 
yet  there  is  nae  reason  why  we  shouldna  do  a'  that 
we  can,  even  though  we  do  fa'  sae  short  o'  the 
divine  pattern.  An'  there  are  mony  acts  o'  oor 
dear  Lord  that  we  may  mair  nearly  imitate." 

"Ay,  we  can  visit  the  sick  an'  gang  aboot 
doing  gude,  though  even  in  that  we  canna  give 
the  comfort  that  he  gave.  I  hae  often  thought  o' 
the  time  the  Maister  girded  himsel'  wi'  a  towel 
an'  washed  his  disciples'  feet  in  that  upper  cham- 
ber. I  think  it  was  that  vera  act  o'  his  that  gave 
me  hope.  For  you  ken  that  God  stands  sae  far 
aboon  us  that  we  darena  think  to  approach  him; 
an'  oor  Saviour,  too,  in  his  life  on  earth,  was  sae 
unique,  sae  grandly  gude  an'  blameless,  that  I 


THE  MOTHERLESS  BAIRNS.  187 

couldna  seem  to  win  to  him.  But  amang  his  fol- 
lowers he  became  as  ane  o'  them ;  he  took  the 
place  o'  a  servant  amang  them ;  sae  I  said  to  my- 
sel',  This  is  reachin'  doon  even  to  me;  here  is  a 
hand  held  oot,  here  is  ane  wha  wunna  scorn  to 
wash  my  heart,  bad  as  it  is,  sin'  he  washed  the 
feet  o'  sinfu'  men. ' ' 

"I  see,"  said  Mrs.  Ainslie;  "we  a'  want  to 
see  the  human  side  o'  oor  Saviour  to  give  us  cour- 
age to  hope  in  his  mercy,  for  then  we  realize  that 
he  understands  us  an'  feels  for  us  an'  wi'  us. 
We  feel  that  he  is  indeed  oor  Elder  Brither  an' 
that  we  are  acquaint  wi'  him." 

"Ay,  acquaint  wi'  him;  I  like  that.  Then 
aboot  his  bein'  a  Brither  an'  stickin'  closer  than  a 
brither.  Ane  wha  had  a  gude,  thoughtfu'  brither 
as  I  had  can  understand  that.  My  brither  died 
when  I  needed  him  rnaist;  but  this  Brither  ever 
liveth  to  mak'  intercession  for  us.  The  Buik  may 
weel  say  that '  he  sticketh  closer  than  a  brither.'  " 

Mrs.  Ainslie  wept  tears  of  joy  to  know  that  her 
father  was  thus  ' '  growing  in  grace  and  in  the 
knowledge  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ."  Nothing 
more  was  said,  and  Sir  William  turned  and  looked 
out  of  the  window.  Soon  he  said,  as  if  speaking 
his  thoughts,  "  Puir  wee  mon  !" 

"What  is  it,  faither?" 

"The  wee  white-headed  lad  has  been  over  to 


1 88  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

the  auld  xot,  an'  is  comin'  awa'  greetin'  oot- 
right." 

"  Puir  wee  heart!"  answered  Mrs.  Ainslie,  "I 
maun  awa'  to  try  an'  comfort  him." 

When  she  met  him  she  said,  "Dinna  greet, 
Geordie,  dinna.  I  ken  that  you  miss  your  mither, 
an'  I  wull  try  to  be  a  mither  to  you ;  I  wull  see 
that  you  want  for  naething.  Your  mither  is  in 
heaven,  Geordie,  an'  she  is  sae  happy  that  you 
shouldna  wish  her  here  again." 

The  little  fellow  shook  his  head  doubtfully, 
and  answered,  "  Nae,  I  saw  her  put  in  the 
ground." 

Mrs.  Ainslie  took  the  child  to  a  seat,  put  her 
arm  around  him,  and  said,  "Geordie,  before  your 
mither  died,  when  you  said,  'Mither,'  she  heard 
you,  knew  you,  an'  thought  aboot  you — " 

"  Ay,  she  did  that,"  interrupted  the  child. 

"  But  after  she  died  she  could  not  see  you,  she 
could  not  hear  you,  she  did  not  know  you — "  and 
in  the  pause  while  Mrs.  Ainslie  was  thinking  what 
to  say  next  Geordie  said,  "  I  ken  she  didna,  for  I 
couldna  wake  her,  an'  it  was  sae  strange." 

"Nae,  not  strange,  for  she  was  dead.  The 
soul,  the  part  that  loved  you  an'  smiled  on  you 
through  her  e'en  an'  answered  your  call,  had  gone 
oot  o'  her  body,  an'  sae  there  was  naething  left  to 
answer,  Geordie.  The  thinking,  loving  part  has 


THE   MOTHERLESS  BAIRNS.  189 

gone  to  heaven.  She  doesna  know  that  her  body 
is  in  the  grave ;  leastways  she  doesna  feel  the 
ground  upon  her,  an'  naething  frets  her;  sae 
cheer  up,  my  wee  mon,  an'  be  as  happy  as  you 
can.  Some  time,  if  you  are  gude,  you  shall  gang 
to  your  mither.  Come  awa'  wi'  me  an'  see  what 
I  can  find  for  a  gude  little  lad. ' ' 

Geordie  wiped  his  eyes  and  trudged  along  be- 
side Mrs.  Ainslie,  hoping  that  she  would  find 
sugar-plums ;  nor  was  he  disappointed.  When 
he  was  again  with  his  brothers  he  tried  to  explain 
what  Mrs.  Ainslie  had  told  him. 

"I  kenned  a'  that,"  Sandy  quickly  replied; 
1  'but  it  is  bad  enough,  after  a',  that  we  maun  be 
left  mitherless.  I  doot  if  mither  wadna  rather 
hae  stayed  wi'  us." 

"I  ken  weel  she  wad,"  said  Rab.  "Weel, 
she  couldna,  or  she  wad;  an'  I  ken  that  Mistress 
Ainslie  is  vera  gude  to  tak'  us  to  her  bonnie 
name." 

"  Sae  she  is,"  said  Sandy,  "  an'  I  mean  to  love 
her  weel." 

"  Sae  do  I,"  chimed  in  the  other  three. 

"Elspeth  is  gude,  tae;  but  she  aye  says,  'Be 
quiet,  lads,  be  quiet,  lads.'  Dear  kens,  we  are 
quiet  enough  now-a-days, ' '  said  Rab. 

"That  is  true, ' '  answered  Tarn.  ' '  If  she  had 
us  by  her  fire,  as  we  were  when  mither  was  alive, 


190  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

she  might  weel  say,  '  Be  quiet,  lads,  be  quiet, 
lads.'" 

Rab's  dark  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  he  said, 
"Hither  was  gude,  an'  I  doot  if  we  are  ever  sae 
happy  again." 

"She  was  that  gude  that  she  wad  amaist  lee 
for  us,"  said  Tarn. 

"  Hoots!  Dinna  speak  like  that,  an'  her  awa'! 
She  was  gude,  an'  that  is  enough  to  say." 

"Of  coorse,  of  coorse,"  meekly  answered  the 
other,  feeling  the  propriety  of  his  brother's  repri- 
mand. 

This  conversation  was  interrupted  by  Elspeth's 
call,  "Come,  noo,  an'  tak'  your  supper,  lads." 

"I  wush  that  the  lads  wadna  wear  sic  sad 
faces,"  said  Sir  William  to  Mr.  Ainslie  as  they 
stood  together  watching  the  children.  "I  tell 
them  to  gang  an'  play  by  themsel's,  but  they  fling 
themsel's  doon  on  the  grass,  an'  the  next  thing 
I  see  is  ane  o'  them  wipin'  his  e'en  upon  his 
sleeve.  I  didna  think  that  the  rough  lads  had 
sae  muckle  heart." 

"  You  canna  always  tell  wha  is  sensitive.  A 
tender  heart  is  often  hidden  under  the  coarse 
jacket  o'  a  noisy  lad.  I  like  them  the  better  that 
they  grieve  a  bit.  If  they  could  sae  soon  forget 
their  puir  mither  wha  made  sic  a  slave  o'  herseP 
for  them,  because  they  are  weel  housed  an'  weel 


THE   MOTHERLESS   BAIRNS.  191 

fed,  I  wad  think  them  destitute  o'  natural  affec- 
tion. They  wull  laugh  an'  play  again,  give  them 
time,  faither. " 

"  Weel,  weel,  be  it  sae.  But  I  miss  their  wee 
games  as  I  sit  idly  by  the  window.  I  haena 
muckle  change,  you  see,  an'  their  play  minds  me 
o'  the  time  when  I  was  a  lad  an'  played  wi'  my 
brither  on  the  same  spot.  Baith  o'  us  had  a  wee 
doggie;  weel,  as  to  that,  what  ane  had  the  ither 
had.  Puir  Tarn,  puir  brither  Tarn  !  I  believe  I 
like  the  lad  wi'  the  muckle  heid  best  because  o' 
his  name.  Graham  wants  ane  o'  them;  he  canna 
hae  Tarn.  I  think  that  Sandy  better  gang,  an' 
that  wull  leave  the  three  younger  anes  here  wi' 
their  faither.  Aleck  is  vera  gratefu'  that  we  take 
sae  muckle  care  o'  the  bairns,  an'  he  wunna  ob- 
ject to  Sandy's  goin'  to  Graham's.  Marjorie.  an' 
baith  the  auld  lassies  wull  pet  an'  cuddle  him." 

Aleck  was  consulted,  and  Sandy  went  to  Walk- 
er's, nothing  loath,  since  he  could  see  his  father 
and  his  brothers  as  often  as  he  pleased. 


192  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

DEATH   OF  JEAN    HUGHS. 

AGAIN  the  snows  of  Scotland  lay  upon  her 
mountains,  her  hillsides,  and  her  moorlands,  and 
her  streams  were  locked  in  the  embrace  of  winter. 

It  was  one  bitterly  cold  night  that  Elspeth  was 
wrapping  herself  in  a  heavy  cloak.  "  I  wish  that 
you  didna  need  to  go,  gude  Elspeth  ;  the  night  is 
fearsome,"  said  Mrs.  Ainslie. 

"  You  may  weel  say  that  it  is  fearsome,"  said 
Sir  William,  drawing  nearer  to  the  blazing  fire. 

"I  ken  that;  but  Jean  is  waur  the  nicht,  an' 
Nelly  is  amaist  worn  oot  wi'  watching.  There  is 
a  mon  wi'  a  conveyance  waitin'  at  the  gate,  sae  I 
dinna  think  that  I  shall  suffer  cauld." 

"Weel,  that  wull  do;  I  thought  if  you  were 
goin'  to  foot  it  there,  we  wad  hae  a  sick  woman 
here,  an'  perhaps  a  dead  ane, ' '  answered  Sir  Wil- 
liam. 

"Na  sae  bad  as  that,  I  hope.  I  maunna  be 
sae  afraid  o'  the  cauld.  Gude  nicht  to  you  a'." 

In  a  short  time  Elspeth  was  left  at  the  door  of 
the  farmhouse.  Nelly  met  her,  saying,  "Dear, 
gude  Elspeth,  I  am  sae  glad  you  hae  come.  I 


DEATH   OF  JEAN    HUGHS.  193 

thought  you  wad  come,  though  the  nicht  is  sae 
terrible." 

Without  making  any  reply  Elspeth  asked, 
"Hooisshenoo?" 

"She  isna  ony  better.  I  fear  that  she  isna 
through  the  warst  o'  it. ' ' 

Elspeth  followed  Nelly  to  the  bedside  of  her 
suffering  sister,  and  as  soon  as  she  saw  Jean  she 
turned  to  Nelly  with  a  startled  look  on  her  face. 
The  look  was  understood,  and  the  poor  frightened 
woman  put  out  her  hand,  saying,  ' '  Dinna,  dinna 
tell  me  that  she  wull  dee." 

But  even  while  she  was  speaking  a  stony  look 
came  into  the  eyes  of  Jean,  and  Elspeth  said,  "  I 
maun  ca'  Mistress  Walker." 

She  went  to  Marjorie,  and  said,  "Whatever 
shall  we  do  ?  Jean  canna  live  till  morn,  an'  Nelly 
wunna  hear  ane  ward.  Come  awa'  an'  speak  wi' 
her." 

' '  Oh,  I  canna  tell  her,  Elspeth.  Are  you  na 
mistaken?  She  wullna  dee,  wull  she?" 

"  Come  awa'  an'  see  for  yoursel'.  I  wad  hope, 
an'  I  could,  that  I  am  mistaken." 

Elspeth  and  Marjorie  went  back  to  the  sick- 
room. It  was  hard  to  tell  whose  face  was  the 
whiter,  Nelly's  or  Jean's.  Neither  sister  looked 
up  when  Elspeth  and  Marjorie  entered;  for  one 
was  fast  losing  consciousness  because  life  itself 

Lady  Marion's  Answer.  I  7 


194  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

was  going  out,  and  the  other  was  conscious  of  but 
one  thing,  and  that  she  was  fighting  against  with 
all  the  strength  of  her  nature.  Nelly  had  always 
walked  contentedly  in  the  shadow  of  her  sister. 
Jean  was  the  elder,  and  she  had  first  secured  the 
place  of  service  at  Felix  Cameron's,  and  then  she 
had  procured  a  place  for  her  sister.  They  had 
seen  long,  dark  years  of  thankless  service,  but 
they  had  endured  them  because  they  were  to- 
gether. When  frowns  were  blackest  upon  the 
face  of  their  old  master,  then  they  had  a  smile  for 
each  other.  Forty  years  of  faithful  service  had 
they  rendered  side  by  side.  Jean  had  been  there 
three  years  when  Mrs.  Cameron  died.  Her  ser- 
vices were  appreciated  by  her  mistress,  and  on  her 
death-bed  she  asked  her  to  remain  and  care  for  her 
little  daughter,  Graham's  dead  mother. 

When  we  \valk  a  long  distance  on  life's  path- 
way in  one  direction  we  come  to  think  it  will 
never  change.  So  poor  Nelly  found  it  when  the 
certainty  of  Jean's  death  forced  itself  upon  her 
mind ;  she  was  spellbound,  and  only  shook  her- 
self free  when  Marjorie  asked  in  a  frightened 
voice,  "  Wull  she  dee,  tae?" 

"Naebody  wull  dee,"  Nelly  roused  herself  to 
say. 

"Alack!  she  is  already  awa',  Nelly,"  said 
Elspeth.  "Noo  be  calm.  Nae  greetin',  nae 


DEATH  OF  JEAN  HUGHS.        195 

mournin',  nae  rebellious  feelin's  can  bring  her 
back,  puir  lass.  Sae  gi'e  in,  gi'e  in  to  a  wisdom 
higher  than  your  ain,  an'  say  wi'  true  submission, 
'  The  Lord's  wull  be  done.'  If  you  canna  say  it 
noo,  pray  for  grace  that  you  may  be  enabled  to 
speak  the  wards  sae  becomin'  to  a  Christian 
heart." 

"  I  canna,  I  canna;  it  is  sae  sudden,  saem  ourn- 
ful,  that  I  canna  stand  it, ' '  she  said,  bursting  into 
tears. 

Elspeth  gave  Marjorie  a  look  which  said, 
"She  wull  stand  it  noo." 

And  she  did  bear  up  very  well  under  her  bur- 
den of  sorrow.  Elespeth  and  Marjorie  did  not 
fail  to  ask  help  for  her  from  above. 

The  next  morning  the  cold  had  abated  and 
the  sun  was  shining  upon  the  white  fields.  Els- 
peth felt  that  all  was  not  so  sad  even  in  winter 
and  with  death  so  near. 

When  she  reached  the  castle  she  told  the 
news  by  saying  simply,  "She  is  awa',  Jean  is 
awa'." 

"  Can  it  be  possible  !"  exclaimed  Sir  William. 
Then  he  added,  "Weel,  she  has  but  answered 
the  call  that  maun  come  to  a'.  I  doot  if  Nelly 
stays  lang  ahint  her,  she  was  that  bound  up  in 
Jean.  Hoo  strange  it  wull  be  to  see  her  at  the 
kirk  an'  her  sister  na  wi'  her. ' ' 


196  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

Mrs.  Ainslie  replied,  "Ay,  it  wull  seem  strange. 
The  affection  they  showed  for  each  other  was 
beautiful,  I  think." 

"They  were  a'  the  warld  to  each  ither.  If 
Jean  had  died  when  auld  Felix  was  maister  doon 
there,  Nelly  wad  hae  pined  awa',  but  wi'  Marjorie 
she  wunna,"  said  Elspeth. 

"That  is  sae.  Marjorie  wull  cheer  her  if 
onybody  can.  She  is  gude  an'  cheerfu'  an'  wise. 
She  is  fit  to  be  the  companion  o'  ony  leddy  in  the 
Ian',  an'  yet  she  doesna  feel  aboon  ony  decent 
person  she  meets  wi',"  said  Sir  William. 

"You  wull  be  needed  to  help  make  ready  for 
the  funeral,"  said  Mrs.  Ainslie. 

"Ay,  I  was  goin'  to  ask  you  if  I  could  gang 
doon  this  afternoon.  The  funeral  wull  be  at  the 
kirk,  an'  there  isna  muckle  to  be  done,  but  I  ken 
weel  I  can  make  mysel'  useful;  besides,  Nelly 
begged  me  to  come  back,"  answered  Elspeth. 

The  evening  after  the  funeral  Elspeth  sat 
with  little  Annie  in  her  lap  and  Kenneth  stand- 
ing by  her  knee.  Finally  she  said,  "  I  hae  been 
thinkin'  that  daith  calls  auld  folk  oot  o'  the  warld 
aboot  as  fast  as  the  young  are  born  into  it.  Twa 
are  lately  gone  frae  oor  neighborhood.  Wha 
wull  be  the  next  the  gude  Lord  alane  kens. 
May  we  a'  be  ready,  an'  it  wunna  matter  vera 
muckle  wha  it  is.  Heaven  is  oor  hame,  onyway. 


DEATH  OF  JEAN   HUGHS.  197 

We  are  but  pilgrims  an'  sojourners  here,  as  oor 
faithers  were  before  us. ' ' 

She  said  no  more,  but  looked  down  tenderly 
upon  the  children  she  fondled.  She  had  a  good, 
motherly  feeling  for  the  little  Fisher  lads,  but  for 
Kenneth  and  Annie,  heirs  of  the  house  of  Camp- 
bell, she  felt  something  akin  to  devotion.  She 
saw  that  the  "mitherless  bairns"  were  well 
helped  to  parritch,  which  food  she  recommended 
for  them.  If  she  did  not  help  them  with  her 
own  hand,  she  would  say  to  the  serving-maid, 
"Give  them  plenty,  give  the  bairns  plenty,"  but 
her  attentions  to  the  children  of  her  "leddy" 
were  more  delicate  and  constant.  She  knitted 
the  softest  of  lamb's  wool  stockings  for  their  "wee 
feet,"  and  mittens  for  Kenneth's  hands.  When 
he  went  to  play  out  of  doors  in  cold  weather,  she 
called  him  to  her  and  saw  that  he  was  ' '  weel 
bundled." 

The  children  added  much  interest  to  the  home- 
life  within  the  castle.  The  older  inmates  grew 
older  without  realizing  it,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Ainslie  fast  developed  in  mind  and  heart  because 
of  their  parental  love  and  duties,  and  in  Christian 
charity  because  they  opened  their  hearts  as  well 
as  their  home  to  the  little  ones  who  needed  their 
care. 


198  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

CHAPTER    XXII. 

RETRIBUTION. 

A  FEW  years  sped  on.  Sir  William  was  be- 
coming quite  infirm  and  he  was  glad  that  he  had 
such  a  son-in-law  as  Ainslie  proved  to  be,  for  he 
was  one  whom  he  could  trust  and  on  whom  he 
could  lean.  "He  is  a  great  hame-body,"  Sir 
William  would  say,  and  the  fact  pleased  him. 
One  day  a  letter  bearing  the  London  postmark 
came  to  Ainslie. 

"  Bootless  it  is  frae  my  uncle,  for  I  dinna  ken 
ony  one  else  wha  wad  write  to  me  frae  London," 
said  he  as  he  broke  the  seal.  He  read  it  through; 
then  he  said,  "  It  is  frae  my  uncle's  lawyer.  My 
uncle  is  dead.  I  maun  gang  to  London,  Marion; 
there  is  property  left  to  me,  an'  I  maun  attend  to 
the  matter  in  person." 

Mr.  Ainslie  set  out  for  London  at  once.  It 
was  in  the  early  springtime  and  the  work  on  the 
farm  had  not  really  commenced,  and  Aleck  Fisher 
declared  himself  competent  to  stand  at  the  head 
of  affairs.  He  said  to  Mr.  Ainslie,  "I  wull  keep 
ilka  thing  in  order.  A'  wull  gang  as  straight  as 
if  you  were  here  yoursel'." 


RETRIBUTION.  199 

"I  can  trust  you,  Aleck,"  replied  Mr.  Ainslie. 

These  words  gave  Aleck  much  pleasure,  for  he 
felt  that  he  was  trusted  as  Stephen  Watson  had 
been,  and  he  had  heard  a  great  deal  about  Ste- 
phen's faithfulness.  The  first  day  that  Mr.  Ainslie 
was  away  Aleck  went  briskly  from  one  duty  to  an- 
other, bent  upon  doing  his  best.  He  could  not 
refrain  from  planning  for  his  master,  although  he 
would  not  venture  to  suggest  anything  to  him. 
He  was  in  the  stable  currying  Rory,  and  he  said 
to  himself,  "This  beastie  is  lang  past  his  prime. 
He  does  nothing  but  eat,  an'  a'  that  he  eats  maun 
be  o'  the  vera  best.  I  wad  soon  sell  him,  gin  I 
were  the  maister.  An'  the  blacks  arena  sic  as 
the  maister  micht  own.  Nae  doot  they  hae  been 
gude  in  their  day,  for  they  are  weel  built." 
Looking  at  their  teeth,  he  said,  uAy,  they  hae 
seen  a  score  o'  years,  I'se  warrant." 

It  was  not  surprising  that  Aleck  reasoned  thus, 
for  the  castle  farm  yielded  excellent  harvests  and 
money  was  plenty.  But  he  did  not  know  the 
history  of  Rory  and  the  blacks,  that  they  had 
been  sold,  and  redeemed  by  Mr.  Ainslie  and  given 
to  his  wife.  In  the  evening  Aleck  ventured  to 
speak  his  mind  to  Blspeth  as  he  piled  up  the 
wood  for  the  kitchen  fire.  He  supposed  that  she 
would  think  him  a  shrewd  calculator;  but  she 
was  much  displeased  and  replied  very  tartly, 


2oo  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

u  'Deed,  an'  Rory  wull  be  keepit  here  as  lang  as 
he  lives,  though  he  should  hae  nae  teeth  to  grind 
his  food  an'  I  should  hae  to  make  messes  over  the 
fire  for  him  an'  feed  him  wi'  a  spoon.  An'  as 
for  the  blacks,  you  wull  hae  to  let  them  bide 
their  time  as  weel.  Though  you  dinna  ken  it, 
there  are  reasons  why  nane  o'  them  wull  be 
parted  wi',  reasons  that  ilka  new-comer  needna 
ken." 

"Weel,  weel,"  replied  Aleck,  somewhat  of- 
fended, "you  may  keep  your  reasons.  I  doot  I 
can  serve  my  maister  withoot  kennin'  a'  his  busi- 
ness; but  you  needua  be  sae  curt,  Mistress  Lun- 
die." 

Elspeth  thought  for  a  minute,  then  she  said, 
"  I  needna,  that 's  a  fac'."  And  Aleck,  not  will- 
ing to  be  outdone  in  generosity,  made  the  conces- 
sion, "It  is  nae  matter,  nae  matter  at  a'.  Wull 
that  be  wood  enough,  think  you?" 

"I  should  judge  sae,"  she  replied  good-na- 
turedly, and  the  ill-feeling  went  no  farther. 

When  Mrs.  Ainslie  received  the  first  letter 
from  her  husband  she  was  disappointed,  for  he 
wrote  that  he  would  be  obliged  to  remain  in  Lon- 
don for  several  weeks.  He  gave  directions  con- 
cerning the  work  that  could  not  be  deferred  until 
his  return. 

Sir  William  missed   Mr.   Ainslie  every  day, 


RETRIBUTION.  2OI 

and  he  often  said,  "  I  long  to  see  Roger  hame 
again." 

He  could  say  nothing  that  would  give  his 
daughter  more  pleasure  than  this.  When  Ains- 
lie  did  come  he  was  the  first  to  see  him,  being  on 
the  watch  for  him.-  He  got  up  with  considerable 
difficulty  and  went  to  meet  him. 

Mr.  Ainslie  was  very  glad  and  thankful  that  he 
was  at  home  again,  but  he  seemed  very  thought- 
ful, and  Sir  William  asked,  "  Haena  your  busi- 
ness affairs  gone  weel,  Roger?" 

u  Ay,  but  I  hae  met  wi'  some  ane  that  I  wish 
I  hadna  seen,  leastways  not  in  the  condition  that 
I  found  him. ' ' 

"It  wasna  Dalziel?" 

"Ay,  it  was;  but  hoo  came  you  to  think  o' 
him?" 

"I  dinna  ken;  but  the  meenit  you  spoke  I 
thought  o'  him.  Hoo  did  you  find  him?  Tell 
me,  for  I  hae  a  wish  to  know." 

"  I  found  him  a  beggar  in  the  streets  o'  Lon- 
don." 

"You  dinna  tell  me  sae  !  Marion,  did  you 
hear  that?" 

Mrs.  Ainslie  bowed  assent,  but  made  no  other 
answer. 

"Tell  us  a'  aboot  him,  Ainslie." 

"I  was  passing  through  ane  o'  the  quiet  streets 


2O2  LADY   MARION'S   ANSWER. 

ane  day  when  my  attention  was  attracted  to  a 
group  o'  three  persons.  An  auld  mon,  or  ane 
wha  had  the  appearance  o'  age,  was  beggin'  o'  a 
man  an'  a  boy.  The  man  paid  no  heed  to  the 
beggar,  save  that  he  glowered  fiercely  at  him,  an' 
he  wad  hae  passed  on;  but  the  4ad  pit  his  han'  in 
his  pocket  as  if  to  gi'e  him  a  bit,  when  his  com- 
panion said,  '  Not  to  him,  Tommy,  not  to  him. ' 
I  stood  still,  for  it  seemed  that  I  maun,  an'  the 
twa  passed  on.  Then  the  beggar  turned  to  me 
an'  said,  '  Hae  you  na  a  shilling  to  gi'e  to  a  mou 
in  distress  ?' 

u  Weel,  I  gave  him  the  shilling,  an'  as  I  leuked 
in  his  face  I  said,  *  Why,  Dalziel,  is  this  you  ?' 

u  '  Ay,  is  it,  Ainslie,'  he  replied;  '  I  am  a  beg- 
gar in  the  streets,  but  I  wullna  be  here  lang.  I 
wull  soon  be  dead  an'  lost.  But  hoo  came  it  that 
you  werena  drowned  ?  I  thought  you  were  dead. ' 

"  '  I  was  mercifully  saved,'  I  replied. 

"  '  I  used  to  think  that  I  was  mercifully  saved 
frae  dro  \vnin',  an'  by  your  ain  hand.  But  I  think 
it  wad  hae  been  better  for  me  gin  I  had  slipped 
oot  o'  the  warld  then  an'  there. ' 

"I  was  silent,  for  what  could  I  say,  an'  he 
went  on:  'I  hae  but  noo  met  wi'  folk  wha  minded 
me  o'  my  sins.  There  they  gang  noo,'  an'  he 
pointed  to  the  couple  that  had  just  left  him. 
'  Leuk  at  the  lad;  does  he  na  leuk  like  me?' 


RETRIBUTION.  303 

"I  leuked,  an'  then  I  said,  'If  he  had  black 
e'en  he  wad  leuk  enough  like  you  to  be  your  ain 
son.' 

"  'He  is  my  son,  but  I  dinna  think  that  he 
kens  it.  I  saw  the  leuk  o'  his  mither,  an'  o'  my- 
sel'  too,  for  that  matter;  besides,  I  knew  the  mon 
that  he  was  wi'.  I  asked  for  a  few  pence,  an'  the 
lad  wad  hae  gi'en  them,  but  the  mon  wouldna  let 
him.'" 

Then  Dalziel  told  the  story  of  Gentle  Annie 
and  her  wrongs.  When  he  had  finished,  he  said, 
"  I  wush  I  hadna  seen  the  lad;  he  minds  me  o' 
things  that  I  wad  like  to  forget. ' ' 

"Weel,"  continued  Mr.  Ainslie,  "I  wad  do 
nae  gude  to  blame  him,  an'  I  said,  'I  am  sorry 
that  you  hae  done  sic  a  great  wrang.  God  forgi'e 
you. '  Then  I  asked,  '  Hoo  is  it  that  you  are  oot 
o'  siller?' 

"  '  I  am  like  the  prodigal  son  that  the  Buik 
tells  o'  ;  I  hae  wasted  my  substance  in  riotous 
livin'.' 

"Weel,  I  felt  a  minglin'  o'  pity,  blame,  an' 
sorrow ;  an'  he  said,  '  Ainslie,  dinna  leuk  sae ;  I 
amna  warth  a  pityin'  leuk  frae  a  decent  mon.' 

"  'What  can  I  do  for  you?'  I  asked. 

"  '  Nae  thing,  unless  you  can  gi'e  me  a  couple 
o'  pounds  to  haud  me  together  for  a  wee  while, 
for  Satan  wull  soon  claim  his  ain.'  Then  he  add- 


204  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

ed,  '  If  ever  you  gang  to  Cragsby  Castle  you  can 
tell  the  folk  that  they  are  weel  off  that  they  had 
nae  mair  to  do  wi'  me.  That  minds  me  o'  somat 
I  had  clean  forgotten:  I  left  your  brither's  bairns 
there.  I  didna  want  to  bother  wi'  them,  an'  I 
didna  want  to  see  them  suffer,  an'  I  thought  that 
Leddy  Marion  wad  befriend  them.' 

"I  said  naething  in  reply  except  that  I  had 
found  the  bairns.  I  couldna  bear  to  hear  him 
speak  o'  you,  Marion,  even  to  praise  you,  nor 
could  I  say  aught  o'  oor  happiness  here.  Whether 
it  was  because  I  despised  him  tae  muckle  to  talk 
wi'  him,  or  whether  I  thought  that  he  wad  feel 
his  ain  miserable  condition  mair  by  the  contrast, 
I  couldna  tell,  nor  can  I  tell  yet." 

Mr.  Ainslie  ceased  speaking.  Both  Sir  Wil- 
liam and  his  daughter  had  listened  intently,  but 
only  Sir  William  spoke. 

"  Marion,"  said  he,  "I  said  lang  ago,  touchin' 
ane  important  decision,  that  if  you  didna  heed  my 
wushes  you  wad  repent  it.  But  I  ken  to-night, 
better  than  I  ever  kenned  before,  that  you  wull 
never  repent  o'  that  answer,  nor  wull  I." 

"Faither,"  replied  Mrs.  Ainslie,  "surely  you 
hae  made  enough  acknowledgment  aboot  that  un- 
happy affair;  noo  let  it  never  be  mentioned  again 
between  us." 


A  TALK   IN   THE   GLOAMING.  205 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

A  TALK  IN  THE  GLOAMING. 

As  summer  advanced  Mrs.  Ainslie  noticed 
that  her  father  seldom  went  outside  of  the  castle. 
He  lost  his  interest  in  the  sports  of  "the  laddies" 
and  often  seemed  to  be  engaged  in  serious  thought. 
One  evening  when  he  sat  thus  pensive  Mrs.  Ains- 
lie asked,  "  Faither,  you  do  not  feel  sad,  do  you?" 

uNae,  not  exactly  sad,  but  I  ain  nearin'  the 
dure  o'  the  shadowy  passageway,  an'  I  was  won- 
derin'  if  it  is  so  shadowy  after  a'.  I  was  leukin' 
oot  into  the  shades  o'  night  when  the  moon  sud- 
denly glinted  oot  an'  dispelled  them  ;  an'  there 
may  be  something  to  dispel  the  shadows  o'  the 
night  o'  death.  What  think  you,  Marion?" 

"  I  think  that  there  is  no  terror  in  the  daith  o' 
the  righteous.  I  haena  thought  muckle  aboot 
daith ;  I  suppose  it  is  because  I  am  still  young  an' 
hae  sae  muckle  to  live  for." 

"It  maun  be  that.  When  I  was  your  age  I 
didna  gi'e  it  ane  thought;  but  that  time  seems 
lang  sin'.  Marion,  when  ane  in  castin'  a  back- 
ward glance  on  his  life  admits  that  it  leuks  lang, 
you  may  set  it  doon  that  he  is  unhappy,  an'  that 


2o6  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

is  what  I  hae  been.  I  hae  had  mair  enjoyment  in 
the  wee  time  that  I  hae  tried  to  be  an  honest  mon 
than  in  the  haill  o'  my  life  before.  I  say  an  hon- 
est mon,  for  I  hand  to  it  that  nae  mon  is  honest 
when  he  defrauds  his  Maker  an'  Preserver  o'  the 
homage  due  to  him,  to  say  naething  o'  the  greater 
debt  we  owe  for  oor  purchased  salvation." 

Elspeth  sent  up  the  light,  but  Sir  William 
turned  to  the  maid  and  said,  "We  dinna  want 
lights  noo." 

Then  resuming  his  conversation  with  his 
daughter,  he  said,  "I  like  this  hour  better  than 
any  ither  noo.  It  canna  be  tae  lang  for  me,  but 
ance  I  couldna  bear  it.  Hoo  we  are  changed 
when  ance  the  grace  o'  God  gets  into  oor  hearts ! 
The  gloamin'  aye  seems  to  bid  me  think,  an'  that 
is  what  I  didna  like;  but  sin'  I  hae  been  able  to 
pray  David's  prayer,  'Search  me,  O  God,  and 
know  my  heart :  try  me  and  know  my  thoughts, 
and  see  if  there  be  any  wicked  way  in  me,  and 
lead  me  in  the  way  everlasting,'  I  haena  been 
afraid  to  be  alane  wi'  my  thoughts.  My  !  but  it 
is  a  different  thing  to  be  at  peace  wi'  God  than 
na  to  be,  to  hae  his  smile  than  to  hae  his  frown. 
My  heart  seems  to  be  clean  made  over ;  it  is  as 
saft  as  a  bairn's.  Not  that  I  am  growin'  childish 
in  the  way  folk  use  the  ward,  but  I  mak'  bauld  to 
hope  that  I  am  becomin'  mair  like  oor  Saviour 


A  TALK   IN   THE   GLOAMING.  207 

said  we  maun  be — like  little  children,  you  mind. 
Weel,  I  wad  like  to  be  as  guileless  as  when  I  was 
a  bairn.  I  wad  like  to  be  as  trustful,  when  I  leuk 
up  with  the  eye  o'  faith  as  I  was  when  a  wee  lad 
I  leuked  up  in  my  mither's  face.  Marion,  I  had 
a  gude  mither ;  I  doot  I  iver  tauld  you  muckle 
aboot  her." 

"I  ken  vera  little  aboot  her;  I  wad  like  you 
to  tell  me  mair. " 

"I  wull  tell  you  what  I  can  recall.  Some 
things  wull  gi'e  us  baith  pleasure,  but  a'  isna 
pleasant  that  presents  itsel'  to  my  memory,  for 
my  mither  had  a  sad,  hard  life  o'  it.  Yet  I  ken, 
for  I  had  it  frae  hersel',  that  her  troubles  drove 
her  nearer  to  the  invisible  but  never-failin'  Friend. 
I  canna  tell  you  when  my  first  recollections  o' 
mither  began,  but  it  was  when  I  was  small  enough 
to  sit  in  her  lap  an'  pillow  my  heid  on  her  mither- 
heart,  as  your  wee  Annie  is  doin'  noo.  Weel, 
before  I  gang  farther,  I  wad  say  that  this  is  ane 
way  in  which  I  feel  like  a  bairn.  It  seems  that  I 
am  lying  in  the  lap  o'  God's  providence  an'  my 
weary  heid  is  resting  on  the  great  heart  o'  oor 
universal  Faither. 

"Weel,  to  go  on  aboot  your  grandmither,  if 
you  should  ask  me  hoo  she  looked,  I  wad  say, 
bonnie;  if  you  should  ask  me  aboot  her  character, 
I  wad  say  it  was  blameless.  But  that  wunna  sat- 


2o8  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

isfy  me ;  it  wadna  satisfy  ony  ane  wha  feels  that 
he  wad  like  to  talk  aboot  his  mither,  to  ca'  mony 
things  frae  the  dusty  past  au'  gi'e  them  into  the 
keepin'  o'  anither.  I  hae  aye  wushed  you  to  be 
like  your  mither  ;  that  is  why  I  wadna  seem  to 
set  your  grandmither  afore  her  by  speakin'  muckle 
in  her  praise.  Nor  hae  I  changed  my  mind  in 
this  respect.  Your  gude,  gentle  mither  wad  hae 
been  better  prepared  to  meet  life's  battles  if  she 
had  possessed  mair  o'  your  grandmither' s  firm- 
ness. Nae  doot  I  wad  hae  been  a  better  mon  if 
mither  had  lived  langer.  I  had  a  vera  bad  exam- 
ple set  afore  me ;  you  can  guess  by  whom ;  an' 
after  he  wha  set  it  had  been  removed  my  mither 
had  great  hopes  o'  winnin'  me  owre  to  the  right. 
Mony,  ay,  constant,  were  her  efforts  to  uproot  the 
evil  habits  I  had  formed;  but  a'  the  while  disease 
was  preyin'  upon  her,  an'  naebody  kenned  it  but 
hersel'  an'  God,  who  for  some  wise  but  inscruta- 
ble purpose  sent  the  affliction.  I  canna  dwell 
upon  that  trouble ;  the  sudden  revelation  to  us 
puir  lads,  my  brither  an'  mysel',  was  amaist  over- 
powering. Puir  Tarn  cried.  '  What  wull  life  be 
warth  withoot  mither?'  an'  I  had  the  same 
thought,  but  I  didna  say  it,  for  I  wasna  as  oot- 
spoken  as  Tarn.  Weel,  she  soon  passed  frae  us, 
an'  then  we  kenned  the  desolate  feelin'  that  or- 
phanage brings.  I  wad  sit  whiles  by  mysel'  an' 


A  TALK  IN  THE  GLOAMING.  20$ 

imagine  that  she  was  wi'  us  again.  I  could 
amaist  see  her  pleasant  face  an'  hear  her  cheerfu' 
voice,  an'  fancy  that  I  heard  her  quick,  light 
step,  for  she  was  aye  movin'  aboot,  aye  busy. 
'  Leddy  Grissel  Campbell  ate  no  idle  bread, '  that 
was  what  folk  said  aboot  her. 

"My  mither  was  a  Christian.  What  she  be- 
lieved to  be  wrang  she  wadna  do;  she  could  neither 
be  coaxed  nor  driven  to  it.  What  she  thought 
right  she  wadna  be  turned  frae,  though  friends  op- 
posed an'  she  stood  alane  in  her  opinion.  She  was 
wont  to  say,  '  I  need  but  Ane  on  my  side;  let  me 
ken  that  I  hae  Him,  an'  whaever  is  against  us  wull 
strive  against  fearfu'  odds. '  You  mayna  be  able  to 
understand  hoo  she  wad  need  to  oppose  others  sae 
muckle,  an'  I  may  as  weel  tell  you  that  my  faither 
was  an  unco  unkind,  unsteady  husband.  I  was 
bad  enough  myseP,  but  not  like  him.  He  aye 
gathered  the  wrang  kind  o'  people  aboot  him, 
an',  as  mither  often  tauld  him,  he  fouled  the  at- 
mosphere an'  made  us  laddies  familiar  wi'  shame 
an'  sin.  I  mind  o'  seein'  her  carry  hersel'  wi' 
the  majesty  o'  an  indignant  queen,  for  she  believed 
that  there  is  sic  a  thing  as  righteous  indignation. 
I  hae  seen  her  clear  the  house  mair  than  ance 
when  the  maister  was  too  fu'  o'  wine  to  ken  aught 
o'  propriety.  I  hae  heard  my  mither  say,  *  Nae 
mair  wine  the  nicht,'  an'  not  a  servant  wad  stir  a 

Lady  Marion's  Answer.  1 4 


210  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

foot  for  it  though  commanded  by  my  faither  him* 
sel'.  I  maunna  say  mair,  for  it  calls  up  ane  scene 
that  I  hae  aye  wushed  to  forget,  but  I  canna. 
Eh  !  it  is  sae  vivid  before  my  e'en  noo." 

After  a  short  pause  Sir  William  went  on,  "I 
told  you  that  she  was  aye  busy,  an'  as  I  leuk  back 
I  think  she  maun  hae  been  a  veritable  Dorcas. 
It  is  nae  wonder  that  a'  oor  tenants  loved  her,  an' 
we  had  mair  tenants  then  than  sin'  I  hae  had  the 
management  It  Was  some  distance  to  gang  to 
the  cottages,  but  ilka  youngster  kenned  an'  loved 
her.  Weel  they  might,  for  many  were  the  gar- 
ments she  took  them  year  after  year,  mony  o' 
them  made  wi'  her  ain  hands.  She  an'  her 
maids  wad  sit  up  o'  nichts  when  the  cold  weather 
was  comin'  on  to  sew  for  the  poor.  I  might  as 
weel  say  here  that  Jock  Cargill  is  doon  sick  an' 
the  family  are  in  want.  If  my  mither  kenned 
aboot  us,  I  fear  that  she  wad  think  us  very  lax 
aboot  oor  people. ' ' 

"I  see  noo,  faither,  why  you  talked  o'  your 
mither.  It  was  to  wake  me  up  to  my  duty. 
Thank  God  that  I  do  not  have  to  contend  wi' 
the  evils  that  she  had,  but  the  paths  to  the  cot- 
tages, so  often  trodden  by  her,  maun  grow  mair 
familiar  to  me.  We  have  not  thought  how  oor 
own  people  live.  I  wull  gang  to-morrow  to  see 
Jock  Cargill  at  least." 


A  TALK   IN   THE  GLOAMING.  211 

"  That  is  richt,  my  bairn,  gang.  I  feel  that  I 
hae  been  a  slothfu'  man  a'  these  years,  that  I  hae- 
na  looked  after  my  tenants.  It  is  but  lately  that 
I  hae  thought  muckle  aboot  it,  an'  noo  I  am  auld 
an'  feeble.  Another  thing,  Marion,  I  am  glad 
that  you  thank  God  because  you  haena  the  trou- 
ble that  your  grandmither  had.  You  hae  reason 
to  thank  him,  great  reason,  Marion.  I  dinna 
doot  but  you  hae  the  kindest  an'  the  best  hus- 
band o'  ony  leddy  that  ever  lived  within  these 
castle  walls." 


212  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

AMONG  THE  TENANTRY. 

THE  next  morning  Mrs.  Ainslie,  true  to  her 
promise,  went  to  see  Jock  Cargill's  family.  She 
took  little  Kenneth  with  her.  This  she  did  to 
give  him  pleasure  and  also  for  the  sake  of  his 
company,  for  he  was  a  pleasant,  talkative  child, 
and  very  sensible  withal. 

The  air  was  soft  and  balmy  and  the  hills  were 
clothed  in  the  freshness  and  beauty  of  summer. 
Exclamations  of  delight  were  on  Kenneth's  lips 
as  he  watched  the  flight  of  the  birds  and  lis- 
tened to  their  songs  or  plucked  the  heatherbells 
and  the  sweet-brier  roses.  He  was  in  excellent 
spirits  when  they  reached  the  cottage,  and  Mrs. 
Ainslie  herself  was  so  charmed  by  the  beauty  of 
the  morning  that  before  she  was  aware  of  it  she 
stood  upon  the  doorstone.  Then  it  occurred  to 
her  that  her  joy  might  be  in  striking  contrast  to 
the  trouble  of  the  cottagers;  that  where  sickness 
and  poverty  were  found  gladness  would  be  a 
stranger.  She  knew  not  that  the  feeling  of  peace 
and  security  was  there. 

Mrs.    Ainslie' s   gentle   knock   was  answered 


AMONG 


THE  COTTAGERS.        Page  212. 


AMONG  THE  TENANTRY.  313 

by  a  pleasant  "Come  in."  She  lifted  the  wood- 
en latch,  and  as  she  entered,  a  sprightly  little 
woman  rose  from  her  seat  by  the  bedside  and 
dropped  a  low  curtsey.  Then  she  said  with  some 
embarrassment,  "  'Deed,  my  leddy,  had  I  kenned 
it  was  yoursel'  I  wadna  hae  received  you  sae. 
I  wadna  hae  kept  my  seat  an'  bade  you  come  in 
like  common  people.  The  neebors  come  an'  gang, 
an'  I  thought  for  sure  it  was  some  o'  them." 

"Never  mind,  my  gude  woman,"  said  Mrs. 
Aiuslie.  "  How  is  your  husband  this  morning?" 

"He  is  mendin'  noo,  I  mak'  nae  doot ;  but 
he  has  suffered  muckle  considerin'  the  short  time 
he  has  been  doon. ' ' 

"I  did  not  know  till  yestere'en  that  he  was 
ailing." 

"Did  you  na?  Mr.  Ainslie  kenned  it,  an' 
on  his  way  back  frae  the  toon  he  left  the  gude 
mon  a  right  lot  o'  nourishin'  things;  neither  is  it 
the  first  time  he  has  been  mindfu'  o'  oor  comfort; 
may  he  never  want  for  a  friend.  I  maun  think 
that  the  nourishin'  things  that  he  brought  are 
settin'  Jock  up  again;  besides,  it  gave  him  a  com- 
fortable feelin'  that  Mr.  Ainslie  leuked  in  on  him. 
A  body  aye  picks  up  heart,  you  ken,  when  he 
finds  that  he  isna  clean  set  aside  an'  forgotten." 

Jock  Cargill  awoke  and  turned  his  eyes  upon 
Mrs.  Ainslie.  He  spoke,  saying,  "Gude  day, 


214  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

Mrs.  Ainslie.  I  take  it  as  a  vera  great  kindness 
that  you  come  to  see  the  likes  o'  us.  An'  there 
is  the  wee  inon,  too,  leukin'  as  blithe  as  possible. 
Heard  you  the  bit  birds  the  morn?  I  trow  you 
heard  them  doon  by  the  wood  yonder.  I  aye  liked 
to  wark  doon  by  the  wood,  sae  that  I  could  hear 
the  wee  sangsters.  My  ears  are  gleg  to  hear  the 
music  o'  the  laverock  to  this  day.  Weel  I  canna 
win  there  noo,  but  my  auld  heart  is  fu'  o'  music. 
I  wad  fain  mak'  melody  unto  the  Lord  for  a'  his 
gudeness  to  me.  Surely  he  verifies  ilka  promise 
to  us.  The  last  few  days  hae  gi'en  me  proof  o' 
this.  I  did  fret  a  bit  when  I  took  my  bed,  for  the 
siller  was  low.  But  I  hae  proven  again  that  we 
are  afflicted  for  oor  gude.  Sae  near  an'  gracious 
has  God  been  to  me  sin'  I  hae  been  sick  that  I 
feel  that  his  presence  mair  than  mak's  up  for  my 
suffering  an'  loss. ' ' 

"That  was  what  he  was  sayin'  to  me  the 
morn,  an'  I  take  it  that  he  kens  what  he  speaks 
o',  he  is  that  cheerfu',"  said  Mrs.  Cargill. 

"There  is  a  blessing  hidden  underneath  a' 
our  afflictions  if  we  patiently  leuk  for  it,"  said 
Mrs.  Ainslie. 

"That  is  sae,"  returned  the  old  man.  "Hoo 
is  Sir  William,  your  faither?" 

"  Faither  does  not  seem  to  be  in  good  health, 
though  he  complains  very  little." 


AMONG   THE   TENANTRY.  215 

"I  thought  the  last  time  that  I  saw  him  at 
the  kirk  that  he  was  failin'.  It  is  but  naitral, 
Mrs.  Ainslie,  that  he  should.  When  a  mon 
nears  his  threescore  an'  ten 'years  he  maun  ex- 
pect to  feel  the  infirmities  o'  age.  I  am  half  a 
score  o'  years  younger  than  Sir  William,  an' 
though  I  am  still  gude  for  a  day's  wark,  I  ken 
weel  that  I  wunna  be  sae  lang.  Your  faither 
wull  gang  weel;  alloo  me  to  rejoice  a  bit  \vi'  you 
that  this  is  sae.  It  was  ane  o'  my  happiest  days 
when  I  saw  Sir  William  partake  o'  the  sacred 
bread  an'  wine." 

Jock  said  no  more  just  then,  but  his  wife  spoke, 
saying,  ' '  Ay,  indeed  it  was  a  happy  day  to  the 
gudemon,  and  weel  it  might  be,  sin'  the  maister's 
conversion  seemed  but  the  answer  to  his  mony 
prayers." 

Mrs.  Ainslie  was  much  affected  on  hearing 
this.  She  thought,  "  Here  in  one  o'  my  faither' s 
cottages  is  a  man  who  has  been  praying  for  him; 
while  we  have  given  him  scanty  wages  for  his 
services,  he  has  been  laboring  for  the  salvation  of 
my  faither's  soul."  She  spoke  with  feeling.  "I 
am  very  greatly  obliged  to  you  for  your  kind  re- 
membrance of  my  faither's  greatest  need.  God 
grant  that  your  ain  life  may  be  mair  blessed 
through  your  faithfulness  for  others. ' ' 

"Ay,  it  was  faithfulness  that  I  aimed  at.     I 


2i6  LADsf  MARION'S  ANSWER. 


had  the  gude  o'  my  maister  at  heart,  an'  though 
I  had  no  siller  nor  ony  influence  to  help  him  in 
his  straits.  I  said  to  mysel',  Sir  William  has  an- 
ither  need,  an'  his  help  maun  come  frae  Ane  to 
whom  J  can  speak.  He  is  nae  respecter  o'  per- 
sons, an'  he  wull  hear  puir  Jock  Cargill's  prayer 
as  soon  as  that  o'  the  king  on  the  throne.  Sae 
I  just  betook  mysel'  to  prayer,  as  the  gudewife 
has  said.  But  I  needna  be  speakin'  aboot  it;  it 
was  but  my  bounden  duty.  I  owed  as  muckle 
to  his  mither,  for  it  was  Leddy  Grissel  Camp- 
bell wha  set  me  thinkin'  o'  my  soul's  wel- 
fare." 

"Then  you  knew  her?" 

"  Should  I  na  ken  ane  wha  gave  me  mony  a 
gude  bit  of  advice,  and  has  putten  mony  a  gar- 
ment to  my  back  forbye?  It  is  true,  I  was  but 
young,  but  impressions  are  made  upon  the  minds 
o'  wee  bairns  sooner  than  we  think;  for  that 
reason  we  should  mind  what  we  say  afore  them. 
Your  wee  lad  wull  nae  doot  remember  his  first 
visit  to  auld  Jock  Cargill's,  an'  sin'  this  is  likely, 
I  wad  fain  say  something  to  profit  him;  but 
what  can  I  say  except  to  repeat  the  wards  o' 
Holy  Writ,  'They  that  seek  me  early  shall  find 
me.'  " 

Mrs.  Ainslie  slipped  a  sovereign  into  the  hand 
of  Mrs.  Cargill,  and  with  the  blessings  of  the  pious 


AMONG  THE  TENANTRY.  217 

couple  upon  her  head  she  left  them.  She  took 
her  way  down  to  the  other  cottage  where  lived 
James  Moray  and  his  wife.  There  was  no  sick- 
ness in  that  cottage.  The  door  stood  open,  and 
as  the  shadow  of  the  visitors  fell  athwart  the 
threshold  Mrs.  Moray  left  her  spinning  and  came 
forward  to  welcome  her  guests.  Mrs.  Ainslie 
was  surprised  to  find  that  she  possessed  a  refine- 
ment not  common  to  cotters'  wives.  After  spend- 
ing a  half-hour  with  her,  during  which  time  she 
learned  many  of  the  hopes  and  plans  of  the  young 
couple,  she  went  back  to  the  castle.  She  felt 
that  she  had  long  robbed  herself  of  one  source  of 
pleasure  by  not  visiting  the  poor  in  her  neighbor- 
hood. 

As  for  the  families  she  had  visited,  they  felt 
like  joining  in  the  opinion  of  Aleck  Fisher  and  his 
lads,  who  thought  Mrs.  Ainslie  was  the  nicest  and 
the  best  lady  in  the  world. 

When  Mrs.  Ainslie  had  an  opportunity  to  talk 
over  the  matter  with  her  husband  she  asked  him 
why  he  had  not  told  her  of  Jock  Cargill's  illness 
and  his  visits  to  him.  He  replied,  "  I  did  not  tell 
you  that  he  was  ill,  for  I  thought  that  your  sym- 
pathies were  sufficiently  called  out  towards  the 
Fisher  laddies.  I  did  not  tell  you  of  my  attempts 
to  help  them,  because  we  are  told  that  we  maun- 
na  let  our  left  hand  know  what  our  right  hand 


2i8  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

doeth,  although  I  maun  say  I  do  not  count  you 
my  left  hand,  Marion." 

Then  followed  a  long  talk,  in  which  Sir  Wil- 
liam joined,  and  it  resulted  in  a  more  settled  con- 
viction that  "it  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  to 
receive,"  and  in  a  plan  for  a  systematic  care  for 
the  benefit  of  the  poorer  folk  around  them. 


ELSPETH'S  SURPRISE.  219 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

ELSPETH'S  SURPRISE. 

"WHAT  have  we  here?"  said  Mr.  Ainslie  as 
he  untied  a  package  that  had  been  left  by  the  car- 
rier. "Books,  are  they?  Ay,  they  are,  and 
written  by  Roger.  The  title  is  '  Well-Remem- 
bered Tales.'  " 

There  were  several  copies  of  the  book,  and  the 
different  members  of  the  family  were  soon  busied 
in  looking  at  them.  Sir  William  put  on  his  spec- 
tacles, and  glancing  over  one  of  the  volumes  came 
upon  the  name  Jamie  Geddes.  "Jamie  Geddes," 
he  repeated ;  ' '  Elspeth,  is  he  na  in  ane  o'  your 
stories?" 

"  Ay;  it  is  queer  that  Roger  took  that  name." 

"He  has  taken  the  whole  story,"  said  Mrs. 
Ainslie. 

Elspeth  opened  her  eyes  wide  at  this.  In  a 
few  minutes  Mrs.  Ainslie  spoke  again.  ' '  Elspeth, 
Roger  has  put  all  your  stories  in  the  book." 

Elspeth  seized  the  book  and  looked  at  it  a  few 
minutes,  then  she  exclaimed,  "As  sure  as  daith, 
I  believe  he  has  putten  doon  every  story  that  he 
an'  Marjorie  ever  coaxed  frae  me!"  She  count- 


220  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

ed  the  chapters  and  went  on,  "I  didna  think  that 
I  had  tauld  sae  mony.  Weel,  I  am  surprised; 
wha  wad  hae  thought  it!  I  didna  think  that  he 
counted  it  warth  his  while  to  give  ony  heed  to 
them." 

On  the  fly-leaf  of  one  book  was  written,  "  To 
Mistress  Elspeth  Lundie,  to  whom  I  am  indebted 
for  the  subject  matter  of  this  volume." 

A  few  days  later  Elspeth  was  reading  in  her 
much-cherished  treasure.  She  sighed  heavily 
and  said  to  Mrs.  Ainslie,  u  Here  is  ane  story  that 
I  hae  never  tauld  him,  an'  hoo  he  came  to  it  I 
canna  make  oot" 

"What  is  it  aboot,  Elspeth?"  asked  Mrs. 
Ainslie. 

"It  is  my  ain  sad  story,  an'  it  is  sadder  here 
than  I  could  hae  tauld  it,  though  Roger's  wards 
dinna  come  up  to  the  fu'  measure  o'  sufferin'  it 
gave  me.  Ay,  ay,  it  is  the  same.  I  ken  it,  though 
he  has  given  Robin  an'  mysel'  different  names. 
Oh,  I  ken  hoo  he  came  to  it!  I  tauld  Marjorie, 
an'  she  maun  hae  tauld  her  brither." 

Marjorie  was  anxious  to  talk  over  the  new  book 
with  the  family  at  the  castle,  and  she  came  over 
with  Graham  and  Roger,  their  little  son,  to  spend 
the  evening.  This  visit  was  such  as  is  often  en- 
joyed among  intimate  friends.  Incidents  of  the 
past  were  rehearsed,  the  present  was  discussed, 


ELSPETH'S  SURPRISE.  221 

and  the  future  looked  into  with  cheerfulness.  Of 
course  the  young  author's  name  was  often  upon 
their  lips.  Marjorie  and  the  others  were  much 
amused  when  Mr.  Ainslie  recalled  many  things 
concerning  Roger's  childhood.  Sir  William  spoke 
of  his  faithfulness  during  the  years  that  he  had 
lived  at  the  castle,  and  he  added,  "Albeit,  faith- 
fu'  as  he  was  with  his  wark,  I  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  he  shouldna  be  kept  at  the  plough's 
tail." 

Elspeth  had  her  own  words  of  praise,  and  they 
were  these:  "  An'  I  too  kenned  that  faithfu'  as  he 
was,  his  heart  was  wi'  his  buiks.  Evenings  be- 
fore the  candles  were  brought  'in,  when  he  could 
nae  longer  get  light  enough  at  the  western  win- 
dow, he  wad  close  his  e'en  an'  his  lips  wad  move. 
I  kenned  that  he  was  goin'  o'er  something  that  he 
wished  to  keep  in  his  mind.  I  hae  often  said  to 
mysel',  There  isna  anither  callan  like  him  in  a' 
these  parts." 

"What  do  you  think,  Marjorie,"  asked  Sir 
William;  "  wull  Roger  continue  his  profession, 
or  wull  he  drop  it  an'  gi'e  his  time  to  author- 
ship?" 

"I  dinna  ken,  but  I  think  he  wull  keep  to  his 
profession  for  a  while  at  least.  Edith  likes  weel 
to  hae  him  write,  an'  perhaps  he  does  it  to  please 
her.  How  nicely  he  has  tauld  Elspeth's  stories." 


222  LADY   MARION'S   ANSWER. 

"Ay,  has  he.  Muckle  better  than  I  tauld 
them  to  him,"  assented  Elspeth. 

"What  has  become  o'  Archie  Grant,  your 
auld  sweetheart,  Marjorie?"  asked  Sir  William. 

"  He  is  at  hame  still,  but  he  doesna  amount  to 
muckle.  He  is  a  chiel  o'  the  most  consequence 
in  his  ain  e'en,  an'  o'  the  least  consequence  in  the 
e'en  o'  others,  o'  all  folk  I  hae  met  with." 

"Hoot,  Marjorie,"  laughed  Sir  William; 
"dinna  be  sae  hard  on  auld  friends." 

"  Weel,  he  wull  never  be  warth  the  room  that 
he  takes  up  in  the  warld  an'  he  doesna  do  better 
than  he  has  sae  far.  Of  course  there  is  nae  tellin' 
when  he  may  take  a  turn  for  the  better.  I  never 
knew  two  persons  more  unlike  than  Edith  an' 
Archie  Grant." 

"Edith  is  a  bonnie,  winsome  woman,"  said 
Graham. 

"She  is  that,"  replied  Mr.  Ainslie,  "but  she 
is  nae  bonnier  nor  more  winsome  than  oor  ain 
wives,  Graham." 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Graham. 

Mrs.  Ainslie  smiled,  and  Marjorie  said,  "Noo, 
Uncle  Roger,  you  maunna  feel  that  you  hae  to 
class  me  with  Aunt  Marion  an'  Edith.  In  mony 
ways  I  dinna  feel  their  equal." 

"An'  whyfore  no?  We  a'  ken  your  warth 
too  weel  to  allow  you  to  speak  sae  o'  yourseP. 


ELSPETH'S  SURPRISE.  223 

There  isna  ane  here  wha  isna  better  because  he 
has  kenned  you, ' '  said  Sir  William  heartily. 

"That  is  sae,"  came  from  one  and  another, 
and  Marjorie's  eyes  grew  dim  because  of  this  un- 
expected tribute  to  her  modest  worth.  Her  hus- 
band was  the  last  to  speak,  and  he  said,  "  Marjo- 
rie's faithfulness  to  her  God  led  me  to  think  of 
the  claims  he  has  upon  me,  and  now  her  consist- 
ent example  is  such  a  help  to  me  that  I  bless  God 
for  giving  me  her  companionship." 

After  this  none  but  serious  words  were  spoken. 
Bach  talked  freely  of  the  undeserved  blessings 
that  God  had  given,  and  when  they  parted  it  was 
with  the  feeling  that  they  were  not  sufficiently 
thankful  for  the  friendship  of  God,  and  that  even 
earthly  friendships  are  not  fully  appreciated. 


224  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE   DEATH  OF  SIR  WILLIAM. 

IT  was  later  in  the  season,  though  summer- 
time still.  The  sun's  beams  still  fell  upon  the 
lap  of  earth,  but  Sir  William  no  longer  watched 
the  full  play  of  its  morning  radiance  or  the  side- 
long rays  it  flung  when  setting.  He  was  very  ill, 
and  no  one  doubted  that  it  was  his  last  illness. 

Mrs.  Ainslie  was  almost  constantly  at  the  bed- 
side of  her  father.  Elspeth  came  often  to  proffer 
her  assistance,  and  was  as  often  called  away  to 
answer  the  anxious  inquiries  of  friends.  Old  Jock 
Cargill  stopped  three  times  a  day  to  inquire  of  the 
Fisher  laddies,  if  no  one  else  was  in  sight,  "  Hoo 
is  the  maister  noo?"  And  often  he  went  in  to  see 
the  sick  man. 

Nelly  Hughs  felt  a  great  sympathy  with  the 
"sweet  leddy,"  and  she  told  Elspeth,  "I  ken  a* 
aboot  a  separation  that  parts  near  friends.  My, 
but  there  are  mony  trials  in  this  warld  o'  ours," 
she  added,  sighing  wearily.  After  a  moment  she 
continued,  "I  maunna  forget  that  the  Lord  aye 
gives  us  grace  to  bear  whatever  he  puts  upon 
us." 


returned  Ekpeth       '  that  's  for 


s"re, 


William's  illness!  Norea  t]M°ray  d"ring  Sir 
confined  to  Elspeth  Mr?  A  •  ,  C°nversatio^ 
soled  by  Molly's  wel,  T  Amshe  oft^  felt  con- 
-unsel 


soled  by  Molly's  wel,  se  o^  felt  con 

-unself  *Sy  cSlt  *"*  °f  Chrfsti- 
P-ience,  nurt/red  f  ^  "*"-  *•- 
'o  sum  up  her  t  ,  /  amict'°n.  She  was  wont 

nation,  <<God  I3v  7'*  ^  Words  of  «sig- 
oor  '5  ™ 


tentp  2*^^^  SS^ 

"^^es^thM^T11"^  *;S? 

mair.     I  hae  seen  vera  ,  Vf  T?™  "*  "P  °ny 
a  sick  folk  for  whom  I  had 

^e  sae  crabbed-like  that  nae- 
15 


226  LADY  MARION'S  ANSWER. 

body  could  please  them.  But  a'  that  ane  does  for 
the  maister  is  gude,  an'  it  is  'Thank  you,'  an' 
'Dinna  trouble  yoursel'.'  It  amaist  makes  me 
greet  that  he  should  think  onything  we  do  for 
him  a  trouble.  For  these  inony  years  he  has  been 
the  best  o'  maisters. ' ' 

Marjorie  Walker  felt  very  sad,  for  she  knew 
she  was  losing  a  good  friend.  She  spent  much  of 
her  time  at  the  castle,  trying  to  assist  and  com- 
fort the  afflicted  family. 

Even  little  Kenneth  felt  the  hush  upon  his 
spirit,  and  little  Annie  looked  up  wonderingly  in- 
to the  saddened  face  of  her  mother.  The  Fisher 
lads  thought  not  of  noisy  sports;  they  ate  their 
"  parr  itch  "  in  silence,  and  dutifully  waited  about 
the  doors  in  the  hope  of  being  useful. 

Thus  within  and  without  the  strong  gray  walls 
of  the  castle  fell  a  quiet  like  the  hush  of  the  Sab- 
bath. At  last  the  end  came,  in  the  gray  light  of 
a  September  morning.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ainslie 
were  sitting  in  the  sick-room:  she  was  tenderly 
holding  the  hand  of  the  dying  man.  Already  the 
film  of  death  obscured  his  sight,  but  his  voice  was 
clear,  though  low,  as  he  said,  "Marion,  I  canna 
see  you.  It  maun  be  time  to  say  farewell.  Where 
is  Ainslie?  Tell  him  I  am  goin'  noo,  an'  bid  him 
come  here." 

"  I  am  here,  faither." 


THE   DEATH  OF  SIR  WILLIAM.  227 

"That  is  weel.  I  hae  something  to  say  to 
you  both.  I  wish  that  it  might  be  as  effectual  as 
the  blessing  o'  the  ancient  patriarchs.  But  I 
maun  hasten,  for  death  hastens.  God  bless  you 
an'  yours  after  you  even  to  mony  generations.  I 
believe  that  this  auld  castle  is  noo  a  godly  hoose; 
never  before  hae  the  heads  o'  it  been  united  in 
servin'  God.  You  may  hope  for  great  things. 
God  grant  it  to  you  oot  o'  his  ain  fulness.  Fare 
ye  weel!" 

In  a  few  moments  they  noticed  an  unmistak- 
able change.  Mrs.  Ainslie,  still  holding  the  hand 
that  was  fast  becoming  cold,  slipped  upon  her 
knees  and  with  bowed  head  silently  committed 
the  departing  soul  to  God.  Nor  did  she  arise  till 
her  husband  said,  "  Marion  dear,  he  is  awa'." 


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